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THE  NOVELS 

OF 

CAPTAIN   MARRYAT 

EDITED    BY 

R.  BRIMLEY    JOHNSON 


This  Edition  of  Captain  Marry  at"  s  No'velsy 

made  exclusively  for  members  of  the 

NEW  YORK  TACHr  CLUB 

is  strictly  limited  to  one  hundred  copies. 


-^^ff^'OcyL-r-t^a. 


Copy  No.  /«5 

PRINTED  FOR 

H.  A.  VAN  LIEW,  Esq. 


Ah, 


NEW  YORK  YACHT  CLUB  EDITION 


OLLA    PODRIDA 


BY 
CAPTAIN   MARRYAT 


NEW  YORK 
CROSCUP  AND    COMPANY 

MDCCCXCVI 


PPr!rf=f 


Contents 

The  Monk  of  Seville  . 

Metropolitan  Magazine^  ^^33- 


The  Gipsy 


III- Will 


Metropolitan  Magazine,  1834. 


Neiv  Monthly  Magazine,  I^S?- 


How    TO    WRITE    A    FASHIONABLE    NoVEL      . 

Metropolitan  Magazine,  1833. 

How    TO    WRITE    A    BoOK    OF    TrAVELS 

Metropolitan  Magazine  1 833,  1834 

How  TO  write  a  Romance 

Metropolitan  Magazine,  1835. 

S.W.   AND  BY   W.    I   W. 

The  Sky-blue  Domino 

NeiD  Monthly  Magazine,  1837. 

Modern  Town  Houses 

Neiu  Monthly  Magazine,  1837, 


PAGE 
I 


85 
179 

214 

225 

243 

260 


vi  Contents 

The  Way  to  be  Happy            «  •  ,  .275 

The  Legend  of  the  Bell  Rock  •  •  •       282 

Moonshine         .             .             .  .  •  ,293 

The  Fairy's  Wand       .             .  .  .  •       3^3 
New  Monthly  Maga%ine^  184O. 

A  Rencontre  .             9             •  •  •  •       328 


List  of  Etchings 


Villain  !   how  cam'st  thou  hither  ?       .  .  Frontispiece 

{The  Monk  of  Seville.) 

PAGE 

Well,  Vm  not  the   first   person  who    has  been  foiled 

BY    A    woman  .  .  .  .  .189 

"  It*S     me <  S.W.    AND     BY     W.    |     W.,'    THAT    YOU    SAY 

YOU    LOVE  "  .  .  .  .  .231 

"  It    is    sharp    ENOUGH,    I    WARRANT,"    SAID   THE    DOMINO       .  248 

"I    DRESS    MYSEL    BERY    'PRUCE,    AS    YOU    SEE,    MASSA  "  .  302 

I    CLIMBED    UP    THE    BREACH  .  .  .  '339 

Drawn  and  Etched  by  J.  Ayton  Symington. 


Prefatory    Note 


This  edition  of  Olla  Podrida  does  not  include  the  "  Diary 

on  the  Continent  "  which  appeared  first  in  the  Metropolitan 
Magazine  1835-1836  as  "  The  Diary  of  a  Blase ^"^  continued 
in  the  New  Monthly  Magazine  1837,  1838,  as  "Confes- 
sions and  opinions  of  Ralph  the  Restless."  Marryat 
himself  described  the  "Diary"  as  "  very  good  magazine 
stuff,"  and  it  has  no  fitting  place  in  an  edition  of  his 
novels,  from  which  the  "Diary  in  America"  is  also  ex- 
cluded. 

The  space  thus  created  is  occupied  by  "The  Gipsy," 
"  The  Fairy's  Wand,"  and  "  A  Rencontre,"  which  I  have 
ventured  to  print  here  in  spite  the  author's  protest,* 
that  the  original  edition  of  Olla  Podrida  contained  all  the 
miscellaneous  matter  contributed  by  him  to  periodicals  that 
he  wished  to  acknowledge  as  his  writing.  The  statement 
may  be  regarded  as  a  challenge  to  his  editors  to  produce 
something  worthy ;  and  I  certainly  consider  that  the 
"  Gipsy  "  is  superior  to  some  of  his  fragments,  and  may  be 
paired,  as  a  comedy,  with  "  The  Monk  of  Seville,"  as  a 
tragedy. 

But  I  have  not  attempted  any  systematic  search  for 
scraps.  "  The  Fairy's  Wand  "  was  published  in  the  same 
year  as,  and  probably  later  than,  Olla  Podrida  itself,  and 
need  not  therefore  be  "  considered  as  disavowed  and 
rejected  "  by  him.  "  A  Rencontre  "  was  always  reprinted 
and  acknowledged  by  its  author,  being,  for  no  ostensible 
reason,  bound  up  with  Joseph  Rushbrooky  or  The  Poacher, 
1 841. 

This  seems  the  most  appropriate  occasion  to  supplement, 

*  Preface  to  first  edition  of  O.P.  printed  below. 

ix 


X  Prefatory  Note 

and — in  some  measure — to  correct,  the  list  of  novels  con- 
tributed to  periodicals  by  Marryat,  which  I  compiled  from 
statements  in  The  Life  and  Letters  by  Florence  Marryat 
(also  tabulated  in  Mr  David  Hannay's  "  Life  "),  and  printed 
on  p.  xix.  of  the  General  Introduction  to  this  edition. 

To  THE  Metropolitan  Magazine. 

(Edited  by  Marryat,  1832-1835.) 

The  Pacha  of  Many  Tales,  May  1 83 1 — February  1833  ; 
and  May  1834— May  1835. 

Peter  Simple,  June  1 83  2 — September  1 83 3.  The  novel 
is  not  completed  in  the  Magazine,  but  closes  with  an 
announcement  of  the  three  volume  edition. 

Jacob  Faithful,  September  1 83 3 — September  1 834. 

Japhet  in  Search  of  a  Father,  September  1 834 — January 
1836. 

Snarleyyoiv,  January  1836 — January  1837. 

Midshipman  Easy.  One  specimen  chapter  only.  August 
1835. 

To  THE  New  Monthly  Magazine. 

The  Privateersman,  1 845- 1 846. 

Valerie  (the  first  eleven  chapters),  1846-1847. 

The  Phantom  Ship,  1838-1839. 

The  bulk  of  this  volume  is  reprinted  from  the  first 
edition  of  Olla  Podrida,  in  three  volumes,  Longman,  Orme, 
Brown,  Green,  and  Longmans,  1840.  "  The  Gipsy," 
from  the  Metropolitan  Magazine;  "The  Fairy's  Wand," 
from  the  Nenv  Monthly  Magazine;  and  "A  Rencontre," 
from  the  first  Edition  of  The  Poacher,  1 84 1. 

R.  B.  J. 


Author's  Preface  to  the  First  Edition 


I  HAVE  not  yet  ventured  upon  a  Preface  to  any  of  my 
writings,  and  I  did  not  expect  that  I  should  ever  have 
written  one.  Except  in  a  work  of  importance,  which  may 
demand  it,  a  Preface  is,  generally  speaking,  a  request  for 
indulgence  which  never  will  be  accorded,  or  an  explanation 
to  which  the  Public  is  indifferent.  It  is  only  when  an 
explanation  is  due  to  the  Public,  or  to  the  Author's  reputa- 
tion, that  he  should  venture  to  offer  one.  If  a  work  is 
well  written,  the  Public  are  satisfied ;  if  not,  they  have 
just  cause  to  feel  otherwise  \  and  if  an  Author  obtains 
justice,  he  obtains  all  that  he  has  a  right  to  expect. 

I  write  this  Preface,  because  I  consider  that  it  may  save 
me  from  a  hasty  remark  or  two,  which  it  may  be  just  as 
well  to  forestall.  During  the  ten  years  which  I  have  taken 
up  the  pen,  I  have  furnished  miscellaneous  matter  to  various 
Periodicals,  which,  if  it  were  all  collected  together,  would 
swell  into  many  volumes.  Among  it,  as  must  be  the  case 
under  the  circumstances  in  which  it  was  written,  there  is 
some  which  I  consider  tolerable  ;  but  the  major  portion  is 
but  indifferent ;  and  I  should  be  very  sorry  indeed,  if  at 
any  future  time,  when  I  may  not  have  the  power  to 
prevent  it,  all  these  articles  should  be  collected  and  printed 
as  mine.  If  ever  it  were  done,  it  certainly  would  not  be 
by  my  friends :  I  wish  it,  therefore,  to  be  understood,  that 
in  the  portions  of  these  volumes  which  consist  of  republi- 
cations, I  have  selected  from  the  mass,  all  that  I  wish  to 
acknowledge  as  my  writing ;  and  that  the  remainder  (with 
the  exception  of  the  papers  on  nautical  subjects,  which  are 
of  no  interest  to  the  general  reader)  may  be  considered  as 
disavowed  and  rejected.     The  major  part  of  these  volumes 


x'li         Author's  Preface  to  the  First  Edition 

consist  of  a  Diary  written  when  I  was  on  the  Continent.  It 
first  appeared  in  the  Periodicals,  under  the  title  of  a  "  Diary 
of  a  B/ase : "  the  title  was  a  bad  one,  as  I  did  not  write  up 
to  the  character;  I  have,  therefore,  for  want  of  a  better 
name,  simply  called  it  a  "  Diary  on  the  Continent ; "  and  I 
mention  this,  that  I  may  not  be  accused  of  having  inten- 
tionally deceived. 

F.  M. 


THE  MONK  OF  SEVILLE: 

A    PLAY,    IN    FIVE    ACTS. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONiE. 

Anselmo  Don  Caspar,  A  monk  disguised  as  a  cavalter„ 

Don  Felix,  A  Spanish  nobleman, 

Don  Perez,  Do. 

Superior  of  the  monastery, 

Antonio,  Servant  to  Don  Gasper, 

Manuel,  A  monk. 

Jacobo,  Porter  to  the  monastery, 

Sancho,  Servant  to  Don  Pere%, 

Donna  Inez,  A  noble  lady, 

IsiDORA,  Her  niece. 

Donna  Serafina. 

Beppa,    \  1  ^r       '         r\  Servant  to  Serafina* 
'    f  both  ivtves  of\  -* 

Nina,     j  °       )  Do.  to  Isidora, 

Monks,  Choristers,  Attendants,  tsfc. 
Scene  laid  in  Seville. 


011a     Podrida 


The  Monk  of  Seville 

Act  I.     Scene  L 
Enter  Don  Felix  and  Don  Perez. 

Felix.  You  say  his  name's  Don  Caspar  ? 

Perez.  So  he  styles  himself  ;  but  of  what  house, 
parentage,  or  country,  cannot  be  gained.  He  keeps  aloof 
from  all,  bears  himself  gallantly  ;  and  'tis  manifest  that  any 
question  discourteously  put  he'd  answer  with  his  sword. 

Felix.  He's  skill'd  in  fence,  then  .'' 

Perez.  There's  none  to  match  him.  I,  who  have  foiled 
half  Seville,  am  but  a  scholar  in  his  hands,  when  at  the 
school  we've  joined  the  assault  in  courtesy. 

Felix.  A  proper  man  ^ 

Perez.  Beyond  comparison.  He  hath  all  the  stamp  of 
true  nobility.  Pride  in  his  eye  ;  in  his  address,  dignified  j 
in  modes  most  perfect ;  the  most  envied  of  the  men,  and  the 
most  admired  by  all  the  dames  of  Seville. 

Felix.  Successful,  then  .? 

Perez.  He  confides  in  none ;  and  hath  no  intimate ;  but 
I  am  informed  he  is  resistless,  and  I  much  suspect,  my 
rival. 

Felix.  With  the  Donna  Serafina  ? 

Perez.  Even  so  ;  she  has  changed  much  of  late ;  and  I 
have  discovered  that  one,  who,  from  report,  answers  to  his 
description,  is  highly  favoured. 


4  Olla  Podrida 

Felix.  But,  Perez,  did  you  not  tell  me  you  had  left  her  ? 

Perez.  In  faith  I  had;  but  when  I  discovered  that 
another  sought  her,  my  passion  then  returned;  and  now 
that  she  rejects  me,  I  dote  upon  her  more  than  ever. 

Felix.  Perez,  when  will  you  be  wise  ?  when  will  you 
cease  to  trifle  with  the  sex  ? 

Perez.  Never,  I  hope :  women  are  my  game  ;  and  I  live 
but  on  the  chase.  Sighs,  oaths,  and  amorous  ditties  are 
my  ammunition ;  my  guitar  is  my  fowling-piece,  and  you 
must  acknowledge  that  I  seldom  miss  my  aim. 

Felix.  I  grant  it,  Perez,  but  it's  cruel  sport,  and  quite 
unworthy  of  a  cavalier.  How  many  wounded  birds  have 
hid  themselves  to  die  ! 

Perez.  Poor  things — why  did  they  not  keep  out  of  shot 
range  ?  It's  useless  to  preach,  Felix,  I  must  have  my 
amusement. 

Felix.  Be  careful,  Perez,  that  it  prove  not  dangerous ; 
there  is  no  honour  gained  by  broken  vows,  false  oaths,  and 
tampering  with  maidens'  hearts.  It  is  a  fault  in  you  I 
would  were  mended  ;  and  our  relationship  makes  me  thus 
free  to  speak  my  mind.     It  is  unworthy  of  you. 

Perez.  But  sufficing  good  for  women — they  are  but  play- 
things ;  and  thus  far  am  I  renegade,  that,  with  the  prophet, 
I  cannot  allow  them  souls. 

Felix.  You  are  incorrigible.  Change  the  discourse,  or 
I  shall  lose  my  temper  and  that  opinion  of  you,  which, 
'gainst  my  better  sense,  I  fain  would  keep.  Our  subject 
was  Don  Caspar. 

Perez.  Yes — and  my  object  is  to  find  out  who  he 
is,  and,  if  basely  born,  to  hunt  him  out  of  Seville. 

Felix.  That  there's  mystery  is  evident ;  but  when  you 
hunt,  see  if  such  quarry,  good  Perez,  turn  not  to  bay.  But 
new  in  Seville,  I  ne'er  have  encountered  this  prodigy  ;  if  his 
rank  be  mere  assumption,  he  must  be  exposed  ;  yet,  Perez, 
there  may  be  many  causes  for  an  incognito.  Our  Spain  is 
wide  and  well  peopled  with  those  who  boast  high  ancestry* 

Perez.  If  then  so  wide,  there's  room  for  him  elsewhere. 
But  here  comes  Sancho  with  intelligence. 


The  Monk  of  Seville  5 

(^Enter  Sancho.) 

How  now,  Sancho, — what  have  you  discovered  ? 

San,  {^Affectedly,)  I  am  not  quite  a  fool,  Santa  Petronila 
knows  that,  good  sirs, — not  quite  a  fool.  I  think  you  are 
fortunate  in  your  servant.  You'll  excuse  me,  but  I  have 
seen  the  person  whom  you  mentioned. 

Perez.  Well 

San.  I  have  seen  him,  sir,  by  Saint  Petronila  ! 

Perez.  And  spoke  to  him,  I  trust. 

San.  Yes,  sir,  and,  by  the  same  holy  saint  !  I  have 
spoken  to  him. 

Perez.  To  what  purpose  have  you  spoken  to  this 
Antonio  ? 

San.  To  your  purpose,  sir. 

Perez.  What  did  he  tell  you  ?  I  cry  your  patience, 
Felix,  but  this  mule  cannot  be  driven.  What  did  he  tell 
you,  sirrah  ? 

San.  You  do  not  know  what  first  I  said  to  hiiUj — would 
you  have  the  answer  before  the  question  ? 

Perez.  Well,  what  said  you  first  to  him  ? 

San.  With  all  good  courtesy  I  wished  him  a  good 
morning.     He  did  the  same  to  me. 

Perez.  Well. 

San.  I  then  discoursed  about  Saint  Petronila,  the  wind, 
the  pope,  and  the  weather.  No,  I  recollect,  it  was  the 
weather  before  the  saint.  I  think — yes — I  am  sure  it 
was  ;  how  the  saint  brought  in  the  wine,  I  know  not  j  but 
we  proceeded  on  to  wine  and  women,  which  last  discourse 
made  us  thirsty,  so  we  adjourned  into  a  wine-house. 
Saint  Petronila  shrive  me  !  when  we  became  most  intimate, 
and  after  much  beating  about  the  bush,  I  discovered  that 
his  master  was 

Perez.  Who — what  ? 

San.  Don  Caspar,  sir. 

Perez.  Idiot  !  is  that  all  ? 

San.  No, — only  half;  I  found  out  more  without  him. 
He  finished  off  his  wine  and  left  me  without  any  more 


6  Olla  Podrida 

information,  declaring  that  was  all  he  knew  himself ;  and 
that  he  had  to  meet  a  lady.  Let  me  alone  for  finding  out, 
Saint  Petronila  be  my  guide  !  I  watched  him,  and  as  I 
turned  the  corner,  found  him  in  close  whispering  with  the 
Senora  Beppa. 

Perez.  The  attendant  of  Donna  Serafina  ;  then  are  my 
doubts  confirmed.  Treacherous  sex ! — but  I'll  be  re- 
venged !  Did  you  speak  to  them  ? 

San.  Not  when  Antonio  was  there.  I  never  interfere 
between  man  and  wife,  the  blessed  saint  knows  that. 

Perez.  His  wife  ! 

San.  Yes,  his  wife  j  but  when  Antonio  quitted  her, 
I  then  accosted  her  ;  and  to  my  cross  questions — 

Perez.  She  gave  you  crooked  answers. 

San.  Precisely  so,  signor,  and  record  it.  Saint  Petronila ; 
she  said  that  I  was  a  fool ! 

Perez.  The  wisdom  of  the  woman  !  Come,  Felix. — 
Sancho,  you  will  go  home  and  await  my  return. 

[Exit  Perez  and  Felix. 

San.  That  Antonio  is  a  good  fellow.  Saint  Petronila 
assist  him  !  how  he  does  make  me  laugh  !  we  were  sworn 
friends  in  two  hours  ;  and  he  promised  to  drink  with  me 
whenever  I  pleased  :  I  wonder  why  he  never  offers  to  pay 
his  share  of  the  reckoning  ?  He  thinks  it  would  affront 
me,  I  suppose  !  but  when  we  are  more  intimate,  I'll  hint 
the  contrary.  Excellent  fellow!  how  he  did  make  me 
laugh  !  Then  when  next  we  meet,  I'll  ask  his  advice 
about  my  love  affair  !  I  am  sadly  in  want  of  a  confidant ; 
now  I've  only  my  own  wit,  and  the  good  saint.  He's  a 
man  you  may  trust,  I'll  be  sworn.  Lord  !  how  he  did 
make  me  laugh  !  [Exit. 

Scene  II. 

Street  opposite  Anselmo^s  lodgings. 

Enter  Antonio. 

"Well,  I'm  supposed  to  have  as  much  wit  as  my  neigh- 
bours, and  yet  I  cannot   make  out  this  master  of  mine. 


The  Monk  of  Seville  7 

He's  a  perfect  mystery,  and  the  more  I  try  to  unriddle 
him,  the  more  he  riddles  me.  If  I  am  deep,  he  is  deeper. 
In  short,  I  am  no  match  for  him,  and  thus  I  prove  it.  In 
the  first  place,  he  finds  out  everything  I  would  conceal, 
and  conceals  everything  I  would  find  out.  Secondly,  he 
reads  all  my  thoughts,  and  takes  care  that  I  shall  read 
none  of  his.  Then  he  disappears  when  I  turn  my  back, 
and  re-appears  before  I  turn  my  face.  He  has  discovered 
that  I  am  a  rogue,  yet  retains  me  in  his  service.  His 
chamber  is  always  locked  when  he  goes  out,  and  I  am 
obliged  to  wait  below  upon  board  wages.  There's  some 
mystery  about  that  chamber.  I  have  watched  repeatedly 
on  the  staircase  to  see  him  enter,  but  never  can  ;  and  when 
I  would  swear  that  he  is  not  in,  it  is  I  only  who  am  out ; 
for  I  am  summoned  to  his  presence.  There's  mystery  ! 
When  he  does  appear,  who  is  he  ?  Don  Caspar  ;  but  of 
what  family,  and  from  what  part  of  Spain,  no  one  can  tell. 
Mystery  upon  mystery !  He  may  be  the  devil,  and  I  feel 
my  conscience  touched  ;  for  no  good  ever  came  from  the 
devil's  wages.  I'll  to  my  confessor,  and  seek  his  counsel. 
He's  a  good  man,  and  lenient  too,  to  such  poor  rogues 
as  I.  But  he  insists  that  I  appear  each  se'nnight,  and  sum 
the  catalogue  of  my  offences  :  perhaps  he's  right ;  for  if  I 
staid  longer  away,  some  of  them — as  I  am  no  scholar, — say 
half — would  be  forgotten.  \Enter  Nina  veiled,  ivho  passed 
by  him,  and  exit.]  There's  a  nice  girl  !  What  a  foot  and 
ankle  !  Now  had  my  master  seen  her,  there  had  been  a 
job  for  me  to  dog  her  home.  We  lacqueys  are  like  sport- 
ing dogs  ;  we  follow  up  the  game,  and  when  they  stop 
their  running,  make  a  dead  point,  until  our  masters  bag 
them  for  themselves.  [Nina  returns.  Enter.]  She's  coming 
back.  This  time  I'll  poach  a  little  for  myself.  Fair  lady, 
can  I  serve  you  .''  [Nina  stops,  hut  turns  away,  Antofiio 
kneels.] 

"  Turn  not  away,  fair  angel,  for  since  last 
You  bless'd  my  eyes,  my  thoughts  have  been  on  you  *, 
For  weeks  I've  foUow'd,  not  daring  to  address  you. 
As  I'm  a  bachelor,  and  free  to  wed, 


8  Olla  Podrida 

Might  I  your  favour  gain,  a  life  of  tenderness, 
To  you,  my  love,  I'd  tender." 

{Aside?}  I  borrow'd  that  speech,  excepting  the  last 
flourish,  from  my  master  :  but  since  he  has  used  it  like  his 
cast-off  clothes,  'tis  mine  by  custom.  {Aloud.')  Will  you 
not  answer  ?  I  love  you,  madam,  have  loved  you  long  j 
and,  by  my  soul !  ne'er  said  so  much  before  to  any  woman 
breathing.  [Nina  turns  round  and  lifts  her  veil,  Antonio 
turns  away,]  {Aside,)  By  all  that's  intolerable,  my  Toledo 
wife  !  {Turning  to  her,)  Holy  Saint  Frances  !  It  is,  it  is 
my  wife  ! 

Nina,  Yes,  sir,  your  injured,  your  deserted  wife  ! 

Ant,  And  are  you  still  alive  ?  then  I  am  once  more 
happy  !      {Offers  to  embrace  her,) 

Nina.  Forbear  !   When  was  I  dead,  you  wretch  ? 

Ant.  Why,  Nina,  I've  a  letter  from  Toledo,  that  states 
that  you  are  dead ;  you  died  a  treble  death,  yourself  and 
twins. 

Nina.  What? 

Ant,  Twins,  my  love,  sweet  pledges  of  affection.  I've 
the  letter  in  my  pocket  y  I've  kept  it  there  for  months, 
pored  over  it  for  weeks,  and  cried  over  it  for  days. 
{Fumbles  in  his  pocket,)  Now  I  recollect  it  is  in  the  pocket 
of  my  gala  suit.  What  an  infamous  forgery !  Come 
to  my  arms,  my  dear  lamented,  but  now  recovered 
wife ! 

Nina.  Keep  off,  you  wretch !  What  did  you  say  just 
now  ?  *'  I've  loved  you  long,  and  ne'er  have  said  so  much 
to  any  woman  breathing." 

Ant,  Well,  my  love,  no  more  I  had,  except  to  yourself; 
and  you  I  thought  were  dead.  Why,  my  dearest  Nina,  it 
is  a  proof  of  my  constancy.  When  I  first  saw  you,  I  said 
to  myself  "  that  is  the  only  woman  I  ever  saw  with  a  foot 
and  ankle  so  pretty  as  my  Nina's ; "  and  the  more  I  looked 
at  you,  the  more  your  sweet  figure  reminded  me  of  your- 
self. In  fact,  it  was  your  likeness  to  yourself  that  created 
the  first  emotion  in  my  widowed  heart.  Had  I  fallen  in 
love  with  anybody  else,  my  dearest  Nina,  you  might  have 


The  Monk  of  Seville  9 

cause  for  anger  j  but  I  assert,  to  fall  in  love  with  my  own 
wife  proves  me  a  paragon  of  fidelity. 

Nina.  O,  Lopez,  could  I  but  believe  you  ! 

[Antonio  turns  away  and  takes  out  his  handkerchief.']    (Aside.) 
As  my  master  says  (turning  to  Nina), 
*'  Lay  bare  my  heart,  my  Nina,  read  each  thought, 
And  there  your  image,  deeply  graven,  find." 

\_She  turns  away.     He  pretends  to  be  much  ojfected ; 
at  last  she  embraces  him. 

Ant.  (Aside.)  Into  her  arms  and  out  of  that  scrape,  thank 
my  wits  !  (Aloud.)  And  now,  my  love,  how  long  have  you 
resided  in  this  city  ? 

Nina.  But  a  few  days.  I  serve  the  Donna  Isidora.  I 
was  left  behind  in  sickness,  at  their  country  seat,  some 
time  ago,  and  but  now  have  joined  her.  Where  have  you 
been,  my  dear  Lopez  ? 

Ant.  Wandering  about  everywhere  and  anywhere,  a 
lost  man,  since  I  heard  of  your  loss ; — yes,  a  miserable 
man.     But  of  that  hereafter.     What  seek  you  now  ? 

Nina.  The  lacquey  of  Don  Caspar,  called  Antonio  ; — 
can  you  assist  me,  as  I  am  in  haste  ? 

Ant.  Why  yes,  I  think  I  can.     Behold  him  here  j  I  am 
that  same  Antonio,  and,  for  my  sins, 
Don  Caspar's  lacquey. 

Nina  (walking  away  angrily).  It  was  convenient,  perhaps, 
for  you  to  change  your  name.     You  are  Antonio,  indeed ! 

Ant.  No,  my  dear  wife ;  but  it  made  me  feel  more 
happy  (placing  his  arm  round  her  waist).  You  used  to  call 
me  Lopez ;  dearest  Lopez  ;  and  when  I  thought  you  dead, 
the  very  name,  when  summoned  by  my  masters,  reminded 
me  of  your  dear  self.  I  could  not  bear  it ;  so  I  changed 
my  name. 

Nina.  Dear  Lopez !  And  do  you  really  tell  the  truth .? 
[Antonio  kisses  her,] 

Enter  Beppa* 
Ant.  By  this  kiss  I  do ! 


lo  Olla  Podrida 

Bep.  (aside).  So,  so,  good  husband !  I  have  long  sus- 
pected this.     I'll  watch  your  motions. 

Nina.  Well  then,  dear  Lopez,  you  must  give  this  letter 
to  your  master.  He  must  not  fail  to-night.  When  shall 
I  see  you  ? 

A?2t.  This  night,  if  possible,  there  shall  be  more  than 
one  love-tale,  my  Nina.  [^Exit  Nina. 

\_Beppa,  ivho  has  gradually  advanced,  boxes  Antonio^ s 
ears. 

Bep.  "There  shall  be  more  than  one  love-tale,  my  Nina." 
And  this  hand  shall  tell  another  tale  (striking  again),  thou 
base  villain  ! 

Ant.  (escaping  from  her,  rubbing  his  ears).  O  Lord  !  for 
tail  read  head.  (Aside.)  This  it  is  to  have  two  wives. 
(Aloud.)  Why,  Beppa,  are  you  mad  ?     How  can  I  help  it  .? 

Bep.  How  can  you  help  it ! 

Ant.  Yes,  how  can  I  help  it  ?     I  must  obey  my  orders. 

Bep.  Obey  your  orders  ! 

Ant.  Yes,  obey  my  orders,  or  lose  my  place.  My  master, 
who  is  amusing  himself  with  a  young  lady,  says  to  me, 
"  Antonio,  that  servant  girl  hangs  about  much  in  my  way, 
you  must  make  love  to  her." 

Bep.  Make  love  to  her  ! 

Ant.  Yes,  make  love  to  her.  "  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  do," 
says  I,  thinking  of  my  own  sweet  little  Beppa.  "  Then 
you  will  be  starved  if  you  don't,"  said  he.  And  as  I  found 
that  he  did  not  mean  to  be  in  earnest,  I  thought  that  there 
could  be  no  harm  in  a  little  by-play. 

Bep.  By-play  ! 

Ant.  Yes,  by-play.  Well,  I  refused  long,  for  it  went 
against  my  conscience.  Then  he  took  this  purse  of  ten 
moidores,  and  said,  "  Refuse  me,  and  quit  my  service. 
Consent,  and  take  this  purse  ;  the  money  will  support  your 
wife." 

Bep.  (snatching  the  purse).     Now,  am  I  to  believe  this  ? 

A?it.  Believe  it !  why,  have  you  not  the  proofs  ?  How 
should  I  possess  ten  moidores }  Money  is  not  to  be  had 


The  Monk  of  Seville  ii 

for  nothing  now-a-days.  I  meant  to  have  told  you  all,  but 
have  not  seen  you  since. 

Bep,  She  called  you  Lopez  ? 

Ant,  She  did.  I  would  not  give  my  name.  No  other 
shall  call  me  "Dear  Antonio,"  excepting  my  own  true 
lawful  wife ! 

Bep,  (turning  away  with  indifference,  and  putting  the  purse 
in  her  pocket).  Well,  allowing  all  this  to  be  true,  and  that's 
of  no  great  importance,  what  a  villain  is  your  master,  sir, 
to  pay  his  court  unto  another,  when  he  vows  fidelity  to  my 
mistress.  Donna  Serafina  ! 

Ant,  Upon  my  honour,  I've  enough  to  do  to  defend 
myself ;  though  I  must  confess  that  his  conduct  is  infamous. 

Bep.  I'll  to  my  mistress,  and  make  known  his  treachery  ? 

[Going, 

Ant.  Do  no  such  thing  !  Bad  news,  though  true,  is 
never   paid    for  ;  but    the    purse  opens  when  the  tidings 

please,   although  they're  false  as {jpoints  down  helow). 

What's  your  message  ? 

Bep.  My  mistress  dies  to  see  him. 

Ant.  Tell  her  he'll  come  to-morrow  evening.  He  said 
as  much  when  last  I  saw  him. 

Bep.  When  last  you  saw  him  !  Is  he  not  here  ? 

Ant.  He's  here,  and  there,  and  everywhere,  and  nowhere. 

Bep.  Where  is  he  now  ? 

Ant.  That  I  don't  know ;  but  not  here,  that's  certain. 

[Window  opens,  Gaspar  calls  loudly  from  within  window — 

Gasp.  Antonio  ! 

Ant.  Santa  Maria !  Yes,  sir. 

Gasp.  Go  to  Castanos,  and  see  if  my  guitar  be  strung. 

Ant.  Now,  how  did  he  get  there  ?  Beppa,  I  must  off. 
Remember  my  advice  ! 

Bep.  {scornfully).     I  will.     Good-by,  Mr  By-Play. 

[Exit  Beppa, 

Ant.  {looking  up).  How  the  devil  did  he  get  there,  if  not 
by  the  help  of  the  devil !     For  it  was  not  by  the  help  of 


12  011a  Podrida 


the   door,   I'll    swear.      To-morrow    Fll    confess — that's 
certain.  [Exit  Antonio, 

Scene  IIL 

Moonlight, — A  garden  belofiging  to  the  house  of  Donna  Inez. — 
A  balcony  looking  into  the  garden. — Donna  Isidora  and 
Nina  discovered  on  balcony, 

Isid.  He  comes  not  yet. 

Nina.  Senora,  'tis  not  time. 

Isid.  'Tis  more  than  time  j  I  heard  the  convent  bell 
Strike  long  ago. 

Nina.  'Twas  not  the  hour  of  night,  but  the  sad  toll 
Announcing  some  high  obsequy. 

Isid.  Yet,  still,  'tis  time  he  came. 

Nina.  And  here  he  would  have  been,  but  you  forget 
You  chided  him  for  venturing  so  early. 
Your  aunt  had  not  retired  when  last  he  came. 

Isid.  He  does  not  wish  to  come, — I  will  not  see  him. 
Tell  him  my  resolution. 

[Exit,  petulantly  f  Nina  following. 

Enter  Gaspar,  in  the  dress  of  a  cavalier, 

I  overheard  her  vented  thoughts,  poor  girl  ! 
She  counts  the  minutes  by  her  throbbing  heart. 
And  that  beats  time  too  fast. 
Now  will  she  hang  her  head,  and  weep  awhile. 
Like  flow'rets  waiting  for  the  morning  sun, 
That  raise  their  mournful  heads  at  his  approach. 
And  every  dew-drop,  like  a  diamond,  glistens. 
While  they  exhale  sweet  perfume  in  their  joy, — 
So  at  our  meeting,  smiling  through  her  tears. 
Will  she  appear  more  fresh  and  beautiful ! 

[Re-enter  Isidora  and  Nina.     As  they  appear ,  Gaspar 
retires. 

Isid.  The  moon's  so  bright,  that  faintly  you  discover 


The  Monk  of  Seville  15 

The  little  stars  which  stud  th'  unclouded  heav'n  ; 
The  wind  but  scarcely  moves  the  trembling  aspen, 
And  not  a  sound  breaks  through  the  still  of  night. 
All  Nature's  hush'd ;  and  every  passion  lull'd. 
Save  love,  or  fierce  revenge.     Is  this  a  night 
To  stay  away,  false,  yet  loved  Don  Caspar  ? 

Nina.  Be  patient,  lady,  he  will  soon  be  here. 

Lid.  He  cannot  sure  be  false. 
Perchance  some  danger  hangs  upon  his  steps ; 
Men  are  so  envious  of  the  fair  and  good. 

Nina  (looking).  Senora,  look  ;  I  see  him  in  the  distance. 

Isid.  He  comes  !  "Where,  Nina  ?  O  yes  !  that  is  he. 
Well,  now,  I'll  tease  him.     Nina,  quickly  in  ; 
I  vow  I  will  not  show  myself  this  night. 

[Exit  Isidora, 

Nina.  I  wish  I  had  ten  ducats  on  the  hazard. 

[Exit  Nina. 
\Gaspar  sings  to  his  guitar  ivithout* 

Song  {mournful  strain). 

**  The  mocking  moon  doth  coldly  fling 
Her  rays  upon  my  breast  of  flame. 
And  echo  mocks  me  as  I  sing. 
O  my  guitar  !  to  thee  what  shame  ! 
She  answers  not,  though  thy  best  string 
Is  loudly  hymning  forth  her  name. 

Isidora !  Isidora  !  '* 

[Isidora  appears  at  the  balcony. 

{A  livelier  strain.) 

"  No  more  the  moon  doth  mock  me  now  5 

Her  bright  rays  glad  my  breast  of  flame, 

And  echo,  beautiful  art  thou  ! 

O  my  guitar  !  to  thee  no  shame  ! 

She  comes  !  love  throned  upon  her  brow  ! 

My  strings  hymn  forth  once  more  her  name ! 

Isidora !  Isidora  !  " 


14  Olla  Podrida 

Enter  Gaspar,  nvho  approaches  balcony. 

hid.  Why  hast  thou  staid  so  late  ?  Did  but  the  moon 
Turn  on  my  anxious  features  her  soft  rays, 
Thou  wouldst  perceive  how  fretfulness  and  tears 
Have  doubled  every  minute  of  thine  absence. 

Gasp,  And  would   'twere  day,  that   thou,  sweet   love, 
mightst  see 
The  fervid  passion  stamp'd  upon  my  brow. 
I  dared  not  disobey  thy  late  command  ; 
Yet,  did  I  fret,  and  champ  the  bit  of  duty. 
Like  some  proud  battle  steed  arching  his  neck, 
Spurning  the  earth,  impatient  for  the  fray. 
So  my  young  heart  throbs  with  its  new  delight. 
That  it  e'en  now  would  burst  its  cords  asunder. 
And  make  one  joyous  bound  into  thy  bosom. 

Isid,  Say,  Caspar,  dost  thou  fondly,  truly,  love  me  ? 

Gasp.  Do  I  love  thee,  Isidora  ? 
If  it  were  not  for  thee,  sweet  love. 
The  world  would  be  a  blank,  and  this  existence 
A  dreary  void,  I  would  not  stumble  through ; 
But  having  thee,  a  paradise  it  is, 
So  full  of  perfumed  airs  and  flow'rets  sweet, 
I  would  resist  the  angel's  flaming  sword. 
If  it  were  raised  between  our  plighted  loves. 
Ere  I  would  be  from  thy  loved  presence  thrust. 
Thou  art  the  heav'n  of  my  idolatry  ! 
For  thee  I  live  and  move, — for  thee  I  breathe  ; 
For  thee  and  for  thy  love,  if  thou  knew'st  all 

Isid,  I  would  know  all — there's  mystery  about  thee  ! 
Caspar,  thine  image  here's  so  deeply  graven, 
That  nought  can  e'er  efface  it.     Trust  me,  then,  love, 
As  I  would  thee.     There's  not  a  thought  I  ov/n, 
No,  not  a  fond  emotion  of  my  soul, — 
Not  e'en  the  slightest  ripple  o'er  the  mind. 
When  calm  and  pensive  as  it  used  to  be. 
But  I  would  tell  it  thee. 
O  couldst  thou  view  my  heart,  and  see  thyself 


The  Monk  of  Seville  .15 

So  firmly  master  of  its  deep  recesses. 

Thou  wouldst  be  confident. 

If  thou  shouldst  be  ignoble,  fear  not  me, 

Love  shall  draw  out  thy  patent  of  descent. 

And  trace  thy  ancestry  to  more  than  mortal. 

If  thou  hast  hated,  and  hast  found  revenge. 

Yet  fear  not  me,  dear  Caspar. 

Whate'er  priests  say,  it  is  a  noble  passion. 

And  holds  an  empire  in  the  heart  of  man, 

Equal  in  strength  and  dignity  with  love. 

Be  it  a  tale  of  sorrow  or  of  crime, 

(O  say  'tis  not  the  last  !)  still  let  me  share  it. 

That  I  may  comfort  thee  whene'er  we  meet. 

And  mourn  it  only  when  I  grieve  thine  absence. 
Gasp.  My  Isidora,  oft  thou'st  press'd  me  thus  5 

Since  thou  wilt  hear  it,  then,  it  shall  be  told  ; 

But  one  sad  chance,  most  fatal  to  us  both. 

Is  fetter'd  to  it. 

Lid.  And  what  is  that,  my  Caspar  ? 

Gasp.  That  once  reveal'd,  we  ne'er  may  meet  again. 

Isid.  Then  I'll  not  hear't.     Away  with  prying  thoughts 

So  fraught  with  mischief !  Not  to  see  thee  more ! 

Then  might  the  angel  pour  the  vial  out, 

That  vial  of  fierce  wrath  which  is  to  quench 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  host  of  stars,  in  blood ! 
Not  see  thee  more  !   then  may  they  work  my  shroud, 
And  cull  the  flowers  to  strew  my  maiden  corpse. 
Without  thee,  Caspar,  I  should  surely  die  ! 
Wert  thou  the  ruler  of  the  universe. 
Commanding  all,  I  could  not  love  thee  more ! 
Wert  thou  a  branded  slave  from  bondage  'scap'd, — 
'Tis  now  too  late, — I  could  not  love  thee  less  ! 

Gasp,  {aside).  One  soul  so  pure  redeems  a  world  of  sin ! 
Thou  Heav'n  that  I  have  mock'd,  O  hear  me  now, 
And  spare !  let  her  not  feel  the  bitter  pangs 
Of  disappointed  love  !     Draw  the  barb  gently, 
That  she  may  sigh  her  soul  away,  and  sleep 
Throughout  her  passage  to  a  better  world ! 


1 6  Olla  Podrida 

hid.  What  say'st  thou,  Caspar ! 

Gasp.  I  call'd  down  blessings,  loveliest,  on  thy  head. 
Heav'n  grant  my  prayers  ! 

Isid.  I,  too,  have  pray'd  for  thee,  and  will  again ! 
But  speak  to  me.     Why  didst  thou  come  so  late  ? 
How  short,  methinks,  are  nights.     There's  hardly  time 
For  those  who've  toil'd,  to  gain  their  needful  rest, — 
For  those  who  wake,  to  whisper  half  their  love. 

Gasp.  Night  is  our  day,  and  day  becomes  our  night  ^ 
Love  changes  all,  o'er  nature  rules  supreme ; 
Alters  her  seasons,  mocks  her  wisest  laws. 
And,  like  the  prophet,  checks  the  planet's  course. 
But  from  this  world  of  hate,  the  night  has  fled, 
And  I  must  hie  me  hence.     O  Isidora  ! 
Though  my  seeming's  doubtful,  yet  remember, 
'Tis  true  as  Heaven,  I  love  thee ! 

Isid.  I'm  sure  thou  dost,  and  feeling  thus  assured, 
I  am  content. 

Enter  Nina,  hastily,  from  balcony, 

Nina.  Madam,  the  lady  Inez  pass'd  your  door. 
And,  passing,  tried  the  bolt,  e'en  now  I  hear 
Her  footsteps  in  the  corridor. 

Isid.  We  must  away,  dear  Caspar.     Fare  thee  well ! 
Nina  shall  tell  thee  when  we  next  can  meet. 

[Exit  Isidora  and  Nina  at  balcony. 

Gasp.  So  parts  the  miser  from  his  hoarded  wealth. 
And  eyes  the  casket  when  the  keys  are  turn'd. 
I  must  away. 

The  world  e'en  now  awakes,  and  the  wan  moon 
(Like  some  tired  sentinel,  his  vigil  o'er) 
Sinks  down  beneath  yon  trees.     The  morning  mist 
Already  seeks  the  skies,  ascending  straight. 
Like  infant's  prayers,  or  souls  of  holy  martyrs. 
I  must  away. 

The  world  will  not  revolve  another  hour. 
Ere  hives  of  men  will  pour  their  millions  forth. 


The  Monk  of  Seville  17 

To  seek  their  food  by  labour,  or  supply 

Their  wants  by  plunder,  flattery,  or  deceit. 

Avarice  again  will  count  the  dream' d-of  hoards, 

Envy  and  Rancour  stab,  whilst  sobbing  Charity 

Will  bind  the  fest'ring  wounds  that  they  have  giv'n. 

The  world  of  sin  and  selfishness  awakes 

Once  more,  to  swell  its  catalogue  of  crime. 

So  monstrous  that  it  wearies  patient  Heav'n. 

I  must  away.  [Exit. 


Act  IL     Scene  I. 

The  street  before  Anselmo's  lodgings. 

Enter  Antonio, 

If  ever  fortune  played  me  a  jade's  trick,  'twas  when  she 
brought  my  wives  to  Seville.  So  far  have  I  contrived  to 
keep  them  separate;  but  should  they  meet,  they'll  talk; 
and  then,  woe  to  that  most  interesting  of  all  subjects, 
myself!  I  am  sure  to  be  discovered.  Why,  in  half  an 
hour,  their  rapid  tongues  would  range  o'er  half  the 
creation.  Now,  Beppa  is  my  first  wife,  and,  like  all  other 
first  choices,  the  worst.  There's  vengeance  in  her,  and 
she'll  apply  to  the  authorities ;  then  must  I  to  the  galleys. 
Who  wants  a  wife  ?  I  have  one — aye  two — to  dispose  of. 
Here  comes  a  fool  I  trifle  with.  {Enter  Sancho.)  So, 
comrade,  what's  your  business  now  ?  (Mimicking  him.) 
Saint  Petronila !  you  are  a  faithful  servant,  ever  stirring  to 
do  your  master's  pleasure. 

San.  'Tis  not  his  pleasure  that  I  am  upon — it  is  my  own  : 
I  go  to  Donna  Isidora's. 

Ant.  What  dost  thou  there  ? 

San.  {affectedlf).  I  please  a  damsel,  and  she  pleases 
me. 

Ant.  I    do   not   wonder  at  it.      Barring  a  certain   too 

O  B 


i8  Oila  Podrida 

intelligent  look  that  thou  hast,  thou  art  a  pretty  fellow, 
and  made  to  charm  the  ladies.  Who  is  this  damsel  of  your 
choice  ? 

San.  You'll  keep  my  secret  ? 

Ant,  As  faithfully  as  I  do  all  others. 

San.  It  is  the  maid  of  Donna  Isidora.  I  knew  her  at 
Toledo,  and  for  years  kept  her  company.  During  my 
absence, — Saint  Petronila  strike  him  with  the  leprosy  ! — 
a  certain  Lopez,  a  dirty,  shuffling,  addle-pated  knave, 
stepped  in  between  us,  and  married  her.  She  took 
the  poor  fool  purely  through  pique,  because  I  did 
not  write  to  her  ;  and  the  holy  saint  knows  I  had  not  then 
learned. 

Ant.  {aside).  Now  would  I  beat  his  pate,  but  that  I  think 
the  fool  may  assist  me  out  of  my  difficulties.  {Aloud^ 
What  !  love  a  married  woman !  For  shame,  Sancho  !  I 
had  thought  better  of  you. 

San.  I  loved  her  years  before  she  married  ;  and  since 
the  marriage,  her  husband  has  deserted  her,  and  I  have 
met  her  often.  Nina,  for  that's  her  name,  has  often  told 
me  how  much  she  repented  of  her  marriage  with  the 
fellow  ;  and  could  I  prove  that  he  were  dead,  she'd  marry 
me.  Saint  Petronila  directing  her,  and  make  a  wiser  choice 
in  second  wedlock. 

Ant.  (aside).  The  cockatrice.  {Aloud.)  Sancho,  I  knew 
this  Lopez.  He  is  not  quite  the  person  you  describe ;  but 
never  mind.  Yesterday,  he  came  to  Seville,  and  told  me 
how  much  surprised  he  was  to  find  his  wife  here. 

San.  Then  he's  come  back.  Saint  Petronila  aid  me  !  how 
unfortunate ! 

Ant.  {musing  aside).  I  have  it  !  {Aloud.)  Sancho,  we  have 
ever  been  the  best  of  friends.  I  respect  you  much.  I  have 
most  joyful  tidings  for  you,  and,  if  you  will  be  counselled 
by  me,  Nina  is  yours. 

San.  Indeed  !  I  can't  see  how.  I  think  I  had  a  better 
chance  before. 

Ant.  Tut,  man  !  3^ou've  now  a  certainty.  Sancho,  your 
ear — Lopez  is  dead  I 


The  Monk  of  Seville  19 

San.  The  scoundrel  dead  !  My  dear  Antonio  (embracing 
him),  I  thank  you  for  the  news,  and  so  will  Nina  too.  But 
can  you  prove  it  ? 

^nt.  I  can,  but  in  strict  confidence.  Pledge  me  your 
word  you  never  will  divulge,  not  even  to  Nina,  what  I 
now  confide  ;  for  the  women  have  the  power  to  sap  the 
stoutest  resolution.     Swear  on  your  knees. 

San.  (kneeling).  I  swear  by  Petronila,  my  adopted  saint. 

^nt.  Well,  then,  this  Lopez  was  a  noisy  braggadocio. 
Last  night  we  had  some  words  whilst  waiting  near  the  gate 
of  Donna  Serafina.  From  words  we  came  to  weapons, 
and,  by  a  lucky  thrust,  I  sent  his  prying  soul  the  devil 
knows  where.     His  body  I  secreted  in  the  garden. 

San.  I  envy  you.  Would  he  were  alive  again,  that  I 
might  kill  him  too,  my  guardian  saint  assisting  !  I  should  be 
the  better  welcome. 

^nt.  Indeed  ! 

San.  Not  that  it  matters  ;  I  am  convinced  she  loves  me 
well.  I'll  to  her  straight,  and  with  these  welcome  tidings 
make  her  right  happy. 

j4nt.  Not  quite  so  fast.  When  that  you  tell  her,  she 
will  ask  for  proofs,  and  from  whence  you  had  your  infor- 
mation. 

San.  Why,  that  is  true  ;  and  she'll  never  rest  till  she 
worms  the  secret  from  me  :  Saint  Petronila,  lock  my 
breast  ! 

^nt.  Therefore,  Sancho,  it  must  appear  as  if  there  was 
no  secret.  Tell  her  'twas  by  your  hand  that  Lopez  fell ; 
I  am  content  that  you  shall  have  with  her  all  the  credit  of 
the  deed.     She'll  love  you  better. 

San.  Why,  so  she  will.  My  dear  Antonio,  you  are  like 
my  holy  saint,  a  friend  indeed  ! 

Ant.  If  she  doubts  the  fact,  you'll  come  to  me.  I'll 
give  you  proofs  most  positive. 

San.  Thanks — thanks  ! 

Ant.  Now  take  advice.  Women,  like  eels,  are  rather 
slippery ;  already  she  has  once  slipped  through  your 
fingers.      Their    minds    are    weathercocks,    and    there's 


20  Olla  Podrida 

wind    always    blowing.       Press    her,    then,    hard,    and 
marry  her  at  once. 

San»  I  will,  I  will.  Thanks,  dear  Antonio ! — Saint 
Petronila  will  reward  you. 

Ant,  I  risk  much  to  serve  you.  You'll  meet  me  here 
to-night.  I  must  now  to  confess  this  heavy  deed.  You'll 
come. 

San,  I  will — addio  !  [Exit, 

Ant.  So,  so  the  fondling,  ever  coaxing  Nina 
Loves  this  soft  fool,  and  wishes  I  were  dead. 
I  did  think  better  of  her. 
We  men  deceive,  'tis  true ;  but  still  no  longer 
Keep  on  the  mask,  when  we've  our  purpose  gain'd. 
"With  us  'tis  tiresome ;  but  with  the  women, 
'Tis  ne'er  removed ;  for  mask'd  they  live  and  die ! 

[Exit, 

Scene  11, 

The  Monaster'^, 

GaspaVf  as  Anselmo,  enters  with  Jacobo, 

Jac.  Twice  hath  the  brother  Manuel  sought  for  you  5 
He  came  from  the  Superior. 

Gasp.  You  told  him  I  was  absent  ? 

Jac.  I  did,  and  also  where  you  might  be  found. 
They  sent  a  messenger,  who  soon  return'd. 
Declaring  there  thou  hadst  not  been  to-day. 

Gasp.  Truly,  I  had  forgotten  'twas  the  day 
That  I  with  Don  Baltasar  did  appoint. 
'Twas  thus  my  treach'rous  memory  did  beget 
This  chapter  of  cross  purposes.  [Bell  without. 

Jac.  Someone  rings. 
That  jingling  bell  pursues  me  unto  death  5 
In  faith,  this  porter's  is  a  tedious  office.  [Exit, 

Gasp.  More  tedious  still  the  wearing  of  the  knees 
Upon  this  pavement.     I  am  weary  of  it. 


The  Monk  of  Seville  21 

Enter  Jacoho,  ivith  Antonio. 

Jac,  One  who  inquires  for  thee,  Anselmo, 
V/ho  would  confess. 

Gasp.  (Takes   a  confessional  chair.)      I    know   the    man: 
Jacobo,  leave  us.  [Exit  Jacobo. 

My  son,  we  are  alone ;  now  thou  may'st  profit 
By  holy  rite,  and  on  thy  bended  knees 
Pour  out  thy  soul  to  me  in  deep  contrition. 
Hast  thou  perform'd  the  penance  I  enjoin'd 
For  the  sad  stumblings  thou  did'st  last  confess  ? 

Ant.  I  have,  most  holy  father,  to  my  belief 
Obey'd  thy  strict  injunction. 
I  have  so  much  to  think  of  for  my  master, 
My  thoughts  are  scarce  mine  own  ; 
Still  do  I  often  call  upon  the  saints. 

Gasp.  I  trust  thou  dost — and  not  as  I  have  heard 
That  worldlings  do,  invoke  them  in  mere  blasphemy. 

Ant.  Nay,  father,  when  I  call,  I  am  sincere. 

Gasp.  Thou  dost  evade,  I  fear,  with  double  meaning. 
But  to  the  purpose — by  what  sins  hast  thou. 
Since  last  we  met,  endanger'd  thy  poor  soul  .'* 

Ant.  Father,  my  mind  is  ill  at  ease.     I  serve 
A  master  most  equivocal — a  false  one 
In  all  he  says  and  does  ;  in  love — in  everything. 
I  know  not  what  to  think.     He's  here  and  there — 
In  fact,  I  do  believe  he  is — the  devil. 

Gasp.    Give  me  the  grounds  for  this  thy  strange  suspicion. 

Ant.  He  keeps  his  chamber  lock'd,  his  haunts  unknown. 
He  comes  when  least  expected.     How  he  comes 
I  cannot  tell.     He  goes,  and  Heaven  knows  where. 
I  ne'er  can  make  him  out  with  all  my  prying. 

Gasp.  It  would  appear  thy  master  doth  not  trust  thee. 
Why  should'st  thou  watch,  and  seek  to  find  out  that 
He  would  conceal  ?     This  base  prying  nature 
Is  a  dark  sin,  and  must  be  check'd  by  penance. 
Hast  thou  no  more  ? 

Ant.  Yes,  father,  I've  a  grievous  fault  to  tell ; 
One  that  I'm  fearful  thou  wilt  much  abhor — 


2  2  Olla  Podrida 

An  accident,  'tis  true,  and  most  unlucky — 
I  have  two  wives  in  Seville. 

Gasp.  Two  wives  !  Thou  hast  profaned  the  holy  rite  f 
What !  wedded  twice  !  and  say  'twas  accident ! 

Ant,  An  accident — they  both  have  come  to  Seville. 

Gasp.  It  is  a  heinous  sin — one  that  demands 
Justice  on  earth ;  scarce  pardon  claims  from  Heaven. 
Two  wives  !  How  long  hast  thou  thus  lived  in  sin  ? 

Ant.  'Tis  now  three  years  since  I  did  wed  the  second ! 
I  had  forgot,  my  memory  is  so  bad, 
I  wedded  was  before — till  yesterday, 
I  chanced  to  meet  with  both  of  them  in  Seville. 

Gasp.  Thy  memory's  most  convenient,  but  the  law 
Will  not  o'erlook  thy  crime  when  it  is  known. 

Ant.  We'll  leave  it  to  the  law,  then,  please  thee,  father. 
The  sin  is  one  that  carries  its  own  penance. 

Gasp.  How  could'st  thou  venture  on  so  foul  a  deed  ? 

Ant,  Example,  holy  father  !  bad  example. 
It  is  our  masters  who  do  ruin  us. 
My  present  one,  for  instance,  loves  two  ladies. 
And  woos  them  both.     Sad  reprobate  he  is  ! 

Gasp.  Another's  fault  can't  sanctify  thine  own. 
Else  all  th'  ordinances  of  our  church,  were  useless ; 
Thou  art  more  knave  than  fool,  Antonio, 
And  yet  made  up  of  both.     For  this  thy  crime 
I  have  no  absolution.     Haste  thee  hence. 
And  tremble  at  thy  state  of  sad  perdition ! 

[Exit  Gaspar, 

Ant.  {looking  after  him).  More  knave  than  fool  ! — why, 
yes,  that's  true.  What  a  scurvy  fellow  !  No  absolution  ! 
I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  changing  my  confessor.  So, 
good  sir,  I  give  you  your  warning.  Must  not  pry  either  ! 
Does  he  not  pry  into  my  conscience  as  far  as  he  can  ? 
Why,  his  whole  life  is  a  life  of  prying  ! — I  have  no  opinion 
of  these  monks  !  They're  no  better  than  they  should  be. 
The  law  must  take  its  course — there's  the  mischief.  Let 
me  only  contrive  to  get  out  of  its  clutches  now,  and  I'll 
take  my  chance  for  getting  out  of  the  devil's  hereafter  ! 

\Emt. 


The  Monk  of  Seville  23 

Scene   HI. 

A  Street  in  Seville. 

Enter  Felix  and  Perez,  meeting. 

Felix.  Perez,  well  met ;  I  hoped  to  find  you.  Have  you 
discovered  who  your  rival  may  be  ?  and  what  answer  have 
you  gained  from  Donna  Serafina  to  your  most  urgent 
pleadings  ? 

Perez.  Confusion  light  upon  her !  She  hath  returned 
my  letter  without  opening  it ;  and  sent  a  request  that  I 
will  desist  from  useless  persecution.  Beppa,  her  confidante, 
I  have  contrived  to  parley  with ;  and  what  with  bribes  and 
much  entreaty,  I  have  ascertained  that  this  Don  Caspar  is 
the  rival  who  supplants  me. 

Felix.  I  doubt  it,  Perez — doubt  it  much.  I,  too,  have 
gained  some  information  from  Sancho,  who  associates  much 
with  one  Nina,  Isidora's  favoured  woman.  From  this 
source  I've  learned  that  this  Don  Caspar  is  her  favoured 
cavalier,  and  that  last  night  they  had  a  meeting. 

Perez.  Yet  I  am  sure  my  knowledge  is  correct,  and  that 
the  Donna  Serafina  grants  him  those  favours  which  I  con- 
sider are  but  due  to  me. 

Felix.  Why,  what  a  conscientious  cavalier  is  this,  who 
thus  monopolises  all  our  beauties  !  I  fain  would  see  him. 
Vv^hat  is  he  like  ?  His  properties  must  be  wondrous  indeed. 
Where  is  he  to  be  met  ? 

Perez.  He  often  passes  this  way  to  the  Prado.  I  wish 
to  meet  him  also,  but  not  in  courtesy.  Indeed  !  see,  here 
he  comes ! 

\_Enter  Don  Caspar  and  as  he  would  pass  by,  Perez 
steps  before  him.  Gaspar  moves  on  one  side  and 
Perez  again  intercepts  him. 

Gasp.  Don  Perez,  at  first  I  imagined  this  was  accident, 
but  now  your  conduct  will  admit  no  such  interpretation. 
Do  you  dispute  my  passage  ? 

Perez.  I  do — until  we  have  had  some  little  parley. 


24  Olla  Podrida 

Gasp.  Then,  sir,  your  parley.  Be  brief.  Indeed,  I 
know  not  what  there  is  between  us  that  demands  it. 

Perez.  I  believe,  Don  Caspar,  that  you  woo  a  lady. 

Gasp.  'Tis  not  impossible. 

Perez.  You  will  oblige  me  if  you  cease  to  woo. 

Gasp.  Don  Perez,  I  never  brook  affront.  What  has 
already  passed  demands  a  deadly  meeting.  But  to  reply 
to  your  strange  request,  who  is  the  lady  I  am  commanded 
not  to  woo,  and  upon  what  grounds  ? 

Perez.  The  lady  is  the  Donna  Serafina — I  grant  a  fickle, 
yet  a  lovely  one.  You  call  yourself  Don  Caspar.  Who 
is  this  Don  Caspar  that  ruffles  thus  with  our  nobility  ? 
Detail  your  ancestry  and  lineage.  Of  what  family  are 
you  ?  Where  are  your  possessions  ?  show  me  the  patent 
of  your  descent  or  else 

Gasp,  Or  else,  Don  Perez  ? 

Perez.  I  publish  you  through  Seville  ! 

Gasp.  Then  do  it  quickly ;  you've  no  time  to  lose. 
First  let  me  tell  you,  sir,  that  had  not  reasons,  and  those 
the  most  cogent  ones,  forced  me  to  hide  my  quality,  I  had 
not  so  long  submitted  to  the  doubts  which  are  abroad. 
Still  my  secret  is  mine  own  and  shall  remain  so.  Who 
and  what  I  am,  Don  Perez,  you  shall  never  know.  You 
have  not  long  to  live  ;  and  now,  sir,  let  me  pass.  We 
meet  again  when  least  you  wish  it. 

Felix.  Perez,  indeed  you  are  to  blame.  Don  Caspar 
has  the  right  of  every  man  to  wear  the  incognito,  either 
from  choice  or  from  necessity.  He  has  never  intruded  on 
your  company,  bears  himself  correctly,  and  wears  the 
form  and  stamp  of  true  nobility.  Thus  much  in  justice 
must  I  say.  If  you  must  quarrel  let  your  cause  be 
good. 

Gasp.  Sir,  I  thank  you  {bowing  to  Don  Felix). 

Perez.  Still  do  I  hold  my  words,  and  challenge  him 
impostor ! 

Gasp.  Did  you  retract  them  it  would  not  avail.  But 
time  is  pressing,  and  I  cannot  wait. 

Perez.  When  do  we  meet  again  ? 


The  Monk  of  Seville  25 

Gasp,  I  said  before,  when  least  you  wish  it.  (To  Don 
Felix)     Signor,  farewell !  [Exit  Caspar. 

Perez.  By  heavens  !  I  hold  him  craven !  Do  you  think 
that  I  shall  hear  from  him  ? 

Felix.  Hear  from  him !  I  saw  no  signs  of  fear,  but 
much  of  rage,  and  that  but  ill  suppressed.  In  faith  he 
is  a  noble  cavalier  !  You'll  hear,  and  see,  and  suffer 
from  him  too,  or  I  mistake. 

Perez.  What  did  he  say  ?  when  least  I  wished  it  ? 

Felix.  Those  were  his  words. 

Perez.  They're  pregnant  with  some  meaning. 

Felix.  No  doubt — we'll  ravel  out  this  mystery  as  we 
walk.  Come  to  the  Prado :  this  smiHng  day  will  bring 
the  fair  ones  forth.     Come,  come  !  [Exeunt. 

Scene  IF, 

A  Street  before  Anselmo^s  Lodgings. 

Enter  Antonio. 

What  with  the  messages  from  my  master's  two 
mistresses,  I  am  not  a  little  puzzled  to  keep  my  two 
wives  apart.  I  have  spread  a  report  of  my  absence  by 
another  channel,  which  will  reach  Nina  ;  and,  unless  she 
comes  for  my  effects,  which  Beppa  surely  would,  there  is 
no  fear.     Now  must  I  wait  for  Sancho. 

Enter  Beppa. 

Bep.  One  is  as  sure  to  find  you  standing  here,  as  to 
find  the  figure  of  our  lady  in  the  church. 

Ant.  I  wish  the  likeness  went  further,  and  that  the 
same  presents  were  offered  to  me.     I  should  be  rich. 

Bep.  You  will  never  be  rich.     You  are  not  honest. 

Ant.  It  is  my  poverty  has  made  me  otherwise. 

Bep.  And  while  you  are  otherwise  you  will  be  poor. 
You  shut  the  only  gate  by  which  riches  can  enter. 


26  Olla  Podrida 

Ant,  And  yet,  good  wife,  I  have  occasionally  seen 
great  rogues  amass  great  wealth. 

Bep.  Castles  built  upon  the  sand,  without  a  good 
foundation  ! — a  pile  of  industry  heaped  up  in  vain.  But 
I  have  known  you  long,  and  it  is  useless  to  reason  with 
you. 

Ant.  Pray,  may  I  ask,  what  has  made  you  in  such  a 
sermonising  humour  to-day  ? 

Bep,  No ;  but  you  may  hear  why  I  am  come  to  you. 
I  am  sent  to  know  if  your  rogue  of  a  master  comes  to 
my  lady  to-night. 

Ant,  He  does,  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  and  belief. 

Enter  Sancho, 

Ant,  Sancho,  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  (to  Sancho 
aside),     I'll  speak  to  you  directly  {pointing  to  Beppd), 

Bep,  I'm  sure  there  is  mischief.  I'll  stay  to  plague 
him. 

Ant,  Well,  Beppa,  you  have  your  answer,  and  I  have 
no  doubt  but  Donna  Serafina  is  impatient. 

Bep.  She  may  be :  but,  Antonio,  I  want  to  put  a 
question  to  you,  now  that  I  am  here;  who  is  that  girl 
with  whom  I  caught  you  the  other  day, — that  Nina  ! 

^an.  Saint  Petronila !  caught  him  with  Nina  }  "Why 
he's  a  married  man  and  your  husband. 

Bep,  I  know  he  is,  to  my  misfortune.  Yet  still  he 
makes  love  to  other  women.     I  caught  him  kissing  her. 

Ant,  {aside).  Confound  her  ! 

San.  Kissing  her  !  {To  Antonio)  Your  most  obedient ! 
Then  I  understand  why  you  fought  her  husband. 

Bep.  Fought  her  husband  did  you  say  ? 

San.  Yes,  and  killed  him — a  dirty  rascal,  whose  name 
was 

Ant,  {putting  his  hand  on  SanMs  mouth).  Your  honour, 
Sancho  !  recollect  your  oath  ! 

San,  I  had  forgotten.  Saint  Petronila,  refresh  my 
memory  !     But  this  requires  some  little  explanation. 


The  Monk  of  Seville 


27 


Ant,  And  you  shall  have  it,  but  not  now.  All's 
right. 

^an.  All's  right  ? 

Ant.  {aside  to  Sancho).  Yes — this  woman's  jealous  of 
her.     As  soon  as  she  is  gone  I  will  explain  the  whole. 

Bep.  {aside).  Now  are  there  knavish  tricks  in  practice. 
{Aloud)  You  know  this  Nina — this  girl  of  his  ? 

San.  Why,  yes — I  know  the  woman. 

Bep.  Then  if  you  do,  tell  her  she's  a  shameless  wanton, 
thus  to  seduce  a  married  man,  and  that  Antonio's  wife 
will  spoil  her  beauty  if  she  come  across  her.  You 
understand  me  ? 

San,  Why,  yes  ;  it  is  very  plain,  by  Saint  Petronila  ! 

Bep.  Husband,  farewell.  I  trust  you'll  mend  your 
ways.  [Exit  Beppa. 

Ant.  Cursed  jealous  cockatrice  !  Why,  Sancho,  you 
are  serious. 

San.  Why,  yes,  a  little.  I  thought  you  were  my  friend, 
but  if  you  are  only  doing  a  friendly  act  for  Nina  in  getting 
her  a  husband 

Ant.  My  dear  Sancho,  I'll  explain  it  all.  Nina  is 
virtuous.  It  was  her  husband  that  she  kissed,  and  this 
alone  has  made  that  woman  jealous. 

San.  Why  should  she  be  jealous  of  Nina's  kissing  her 
own  husband  ? 

Ant.  Because  that  husband  had  my  livery  on  ;  and 
Beppa  swears  'twas  I.  When  Lopez  arrived  here  he 
wanted  a  situation,  but  his  clothes  were  so  shabby,  he 
could  not  offer  himself  to  any  gentleman.  I  lent  him  a 
suit  of  mine,  a  very  good  one  too,  and  yet  the  wretch 
had  the  ingratitude  to  quarrel  with  me,  although  dressed 
in  my  clothes.  They  are  on  his  body  now.  When  he 
met  his  wife  he  kissed  her,  and  Beppa,  who  was  passing 
by,  thought  it  was  1 5  and  this  is  the  whole  mystery. 
You  can  ask  Nina  how  her  husband  was  dressed  when 
she  met  him,  and  her  answer  will  prove  the  truth  of 
what  I  say.  Only,  you  must  not  mention  a  word  of  me 
or  of  Beppa.     I  hope  you're  satisfied. 


28  Olla  Podrida 

San,  Why,  yes — it  seems  the  truth. 

Ant,  Well,  now,  Sancho,  let  me  know  how  Nina  re- 
ceived the  news  of  her  husband's  death. 

San.  Women  are  strange  creatures  !  Would  you  be- 
lieve it?  When  I  told  his  death  —  Saint  Petronila,  be 
merciful  to  me ! — although  she  always  disliked  him,  she 
cried  and  sobbed  most  bitterly ;  and  when  I  would  have 
consoled  her  she  pushed  me — yes,  me,  Sancho,  away ! 
Saint  Petronila  ! 

Ant.  I  almost  repent  of  my  scheme.  I  wish  it  had 
been  Beppa  that  the  fool  fancied. 

San.  But  this  did  not  last  above  ten  minutes.  She  then 
wiped  her  eyes,  and  suffered  me  to  kiss  her. 

Ant.  So  soon  —  confound  her  !  He  shall  have  her 
{aside), 

San,  O  more  than  that :  when  she  became  more  tranquil 
she  smiled — hi,  hi,  hi !  by  the  lips  of  the  holy  saint,  she 
did! 

Ant,  (aside).  The  Jezebel !  (Aloud)  But,  Sancho,  was 
she  quite  satisfied  with  your  assertion  of  his  being  killed  ? 

San.  No ;  she  said  she  must  have  more  proof,  that  there 
might  be  no  mistake  ;  for,  as  she  truly  observed,  it  would 
be  an  awkward  thing  to  have  two  husbands. 

Ant.  (aside).  It  is  to  have  two  wives.  (Aloud)  Sancho, 
proceed. 

San.  I  followed  your  advice,  and  told  her  'twas  by 
my  hand  that  Lopez  fell — Saint  Petronila  pardon  me  the 
lie. 

Ant,  What  said  she  then  ? 

San,  Why,  at  first,  she  repulsed ;  but  then  remember- 
ing that  second  thoughts  as  well  as  second  husbands 
were  the  best,  she  dried  her  eyes,  and  was  content ;  don't 
you  see  how  fresh  I  am  with  the  joy  ? 

Ant,  (aside  and  looking  contemptuously  on  Sancho),  Con- 
found him ! 

San,  What  say  you  ? 

Ant,  That  you're  a  happy  man.  Did  you  press  her 
hard  to  marry  you  at  once,  as  I  advised  you  ? 


The  Monk  of  Seville  29 

San.  I  did,  and  at  last  she  promised,  as  soon  as  she 
had  seen  her  husband  dead,  to  marry  me  immediately. 

Ant.  Now,  Sancho,  I  will  be  your  friend.  Of  course 
I  must  not  appear  in  this,  nor  must  my  name  be  mentioned. 
But  if  to-morrow  at  dusk  will  suit  you,  I'll  drag  his  body 
from  the  place  where  I  concealed  it,  and  lay  it  in  the 
path  which  leads  to  the  summer  house — you  know  where 
I  mean,  just  where  the  row  of  tall  chestnut  trees 

San,  I  know  exactly.  Thank  you,  Antonio.  She  said 
to-morrow  night  she  thought  she  would  be  able  to  come 
out.  I'll  go  to  her  immediately,  and  make  the  appoint- 
ment.    Saint  Petronila,  smile  on  my  joys  of  wedlock  ! 

[Exit  Sancho, 

Ant,  How  I  hate  women  !  ...  If  that  fool  had 
mentioned  the  name  of  Lopez,  the  crafty  Beppa  would 
have  discovered  the  whole  affair.  What  with  keeping  my 
own  secrets,  and  finding  out  those  of  my  master,  I  have 
enough  to  do.  So  far  the  former  has  been  well  managed, 
now  for  the  latter.  [Exit  into  house. 

Scene  V, 

An  Apartment  in  the  Guzman  Palace,     Donna  Inez  discovered 
seated  at  table, 

Inez,  Last  night,  again,  beneath  my  niece's  window 
I  heard  that  tuneful  voice  ;  and  if  mine  ears 
Deceived  me  not,  my  Isidora's  too. 
As  I  pass'd  by,  a  light  whose  feeble  rays 
Shone  thro'  the  vacancy  beneath  the  door 
Proved  that  she'd  not  retired.     I  much  suspect 
She  is  entangled  in  some  web  of  love. 
Yet  oft  have  I  enjoin'd  her  to  advise 
With  me,  her  friend,  and  truest  counsellor. 

But  'tis  in  vain  \ 
Love  ne'er  would  be  so  sweet, — so  fondly  cherish'd, 
If  not  envelop'd  in  the  veil  of  secrecy  : 
And  good  intents  are  oft  in  maidens  check'd 


2>o 


011a  Podrida 


By  that  strange  joyous  fear,  that  happy  awe, 

Which  agitates  the  breast  when  first  the  trembler 

Receives  its  dangerous  inmate. 

I've  summon'd  her,  for  now  I  must  endeavour 

To  be  her  confidante.     {Muses.)     'Twere  better  first 

I  made  her  mine. 

And  sympathy  may  win  the  treasured  key, 

Which  startled  love  would  willingly  retain. 

Enter  Isidora. 

Ltd.  You  wish  my  presence.     (Aside)  Hush,  my  tell- 
tale heart. 

Inez.  Hast  thou  slept  well,  my  child  ? 

Isid.  My  dreams  have  been  confused,  but  not  unhappy. 

Inez.  Oh !  may'st  thou  never  wake  to  mystery  ! 
Thine  is  a  dang'rous  age  :  my  Isidora, 
Thou  little  know'st,  that  while  thy  path  is  strew'd 
With  flow'rs,  how  many  serpent  dangers  lurk 
Beneath  the  sweets. 

Isid.  I  will  not  stray,  then. 

Inez.  It  is  a  happy  resolution. 
If,  in  my  youth,  I  had  been  so  resolved, 
I  had  not  loaded  mine  old  age  with  care. 
Nor  soak'd  my  pillow  with  remorseful  tears. 

Isid.  I've  often  seen  you  weep,  and  then  retire, 
Nor  glad  me  with  your  presence,  until  after 
You  had  communion  held  with  Father  Philip  ; 
Then  have  you  smiled  again,  that  is  to  say. 
Smiled  mournfully,  as  does  the  winter's  sun. 
Gleaming  through  heavy  clouds,  and  scarce  deigning 
To  light  up  sober  nature  for  the  minute. 

Inez.  True,  dearest  child,  for  such  is  our  blindness, 
That  we  reject  our  greatest  boon,  until 
We  can  receive  support  from  it  alone. 
'Tis  time  thou  should'st  receive  my  confidence, 
And  learn  the  danger  of  clandestine  love. 

Isid.  {aside).     She  must    suspect    me.     {Aloud)   I'm   all 
attention. 


The  Monk  of  Seville  31 

Inez.  To  say  I  once  was  fair,  and  that  mine  eyes 
Were  bright  as  thine  are  now,  were  almost  needless^ 
I  had  a  mother  most  considerate — 
Kind  to  excess,  yet  ever  pointing  out 
The  path  to  virtue,  and  to  happiness. 
One  precept  above  all  did  she  enjoin. 
And  sure  'twas  little  in  exchange  to  ask 
For  so  much  kindness — wisely  to  seek  her  counsel 
Ere  the  heart  was  wounded.     You  hear  me,  love, 
I  oft  have  made  the  same  request  of  you. 

Lid.  (faintly).     You  have. 

Inez.  I  promised  faithfully,  as  thou  hast  done. 
And  well,  I  know,  wilt  keep  the  promise  made. 
But  virgin  fear  induced  tne  to  withhold 
My  confidence,  until  it  was  too  late. 
My  heart  was  given  and  my  troth  was  plighted ; 
Don  Felipe,  such  was  his  cherish'd  name. 
Implored  my  silence  ;  our  frequent  meetings 
Were  sanctified  by  marriage  :  then  I  learn'd 
It  was  an  old  and  deadly  feud  that  barr'd 
His  long  sought  entrance  to  our  house  ;  but  soon 
He  hoped  our  marriage  publicly  t'announce, 
And  strife  of  years  to  end,  and  peace  restore 
By  our  acknowledged  union. 
Alas  !  two  days  before  this  much-sought  hour. 
My  brothers  were  inform'd  I  did  receive 
My  husband  in  my  chamber.     He  was  surprised 
And  murder'd — basely  in  my  presence  slain ! 

hid.  Oh  Heavens  ! 

Inez.  They  would  not  listen  to  my  frantic  words  ! 
They  would  not  credit  our  asserted  union  ! 
They  dragg'd  me  to  a  convent  in  their  wrath, 
And  left  me  to  my  widowhood  and  tears, 
Tore  my  sweet  infant  from  my  longing  arms, 
And  while  I  madly  scream'd,  and  begg'd  for  pity. 
The  abbess  spoke  of  penitence  and  prayer. 
Reason,  for  weeks,  forsook  me  :  when  again 
I  was  awaken'd  to  a  cruel  world. 


32 


OUa  Podrida 


They  would  have  forced  me  to  assume  the  veil. 

Lid,  To  me,  that  force  had  been  most  needlessly 
Exerted.     What  haven  could  the  world  offer 
So  meet  for  such  a  wreck  of  happiness  ? 
"What  could  induce  you  to  repel  that  force  ? 

Inez,  The  hope,  that  one  day  I  might  find  my  boy — 
A  hope  which  still  I  cherish.     Years  have  fled  •, 
My  brothers  fell  by  those  who  sought  revenge, 
And  I  remain'd,  sole  scion  of  our  noble  house. 
In  line  direct.     Then  did  I  seek  my  child. 
Those  who  attended  at  the  birth  inform'd  me 
It  had  a  sanguine  bracelet  on  the  wrist. 
By  threats  and  bribes  at  last  I  ascertained 
My  child  had  been  removed  unto  the  hospital 
Built  in  this  city  for  receiving  foundlings. 
Full  of  a  mother's  joy,  a  mother's  fear, 
I  hastened  there,  alas  !  to  disappointment ! 
All  clue  of  him  was  lost,  and  should  my  boy  survive. 
The  heir  of  Guzman's  noble  house  may  be 
Some  poor  mechanic's  slave  !     {In  anguish  throivs  herself 
into  a  chair, ^ 

Isidora  {kneels   beside    Inez),      Indeed    'tis    dreadful.       1 
marvel  not  you  grieve 
To  think  that  he  survives  in  hapless  penury, 
Unconscious  of  his  right,  perchance  unfitted, 
And  if  recover'd,  prove  no  source  of  joy. 
But  one  of  deep  regret,  that  a  young  stock 
Which  culture  and  the  graft  of  education 
Would  now  have  loaded  on  each  bough  with  fruit, 
Neglect  hath  left  degenerate  and  worthless. 
How  should  I  joy,  yet  dread  to  meet  my  cousin, 
Should  your  maternal  hopes  be  realised  ! 

Inez,  He  is  my  child.     You  cannot  feel  the  pangs 
Which  rack  a  mother  sever'd  from  her  own. 

Isid,  I've  often  thought  how  sweet  that  love  must  be 
Where  all  is  sanction'd,  nought  is  to  conceal — 
When  hand  may  lock  in  hand,  heart  beat  with  heart. 
And  the  whole  world  may  smile  but  not  upbraid. 


The  Monk  of  Seville 


33 


Such  love  a  sister  towards  a  brother  bears. 
And  such  a  mother  feels  towards  her  son. 
I  have  no  brother — none  of  kin  but  you. 
Now,  dearest  mother,  for  mother  you  have  been 
Unto  my  childhood  and  now  budding  youth, 
"Would  that  my  feebleness  could  e'er  repay 
Your  years  of  love.     O  that  I  could  console  you, 
And  prove  me  grateful !  Heaven  ne'er  be  mine 
If  these,  my  sobbing  words,  be  not  sincere. 

Inez.    'Tis   well,   my    child,    thou    canst    console    me 
much  : 
Let  my  sad  tale  but  prove  to  thee  a  beacon 
And  I  am  satisfied.     Tell  me,  my  love. 
Hast  thou  no  secrets  hidden  in  thy  breast  ? 
[Isidora,  still  kneeling,  covers  her  face  with  her  hands, 1 
Hast  thou  fulfill'd  thy  oft-repeated  promise  ? 

Isid.  Forgive  me,  dearest  aunt  ;  forgive  and  pity  me  ! 

Inez.  Last  night,  my  child,  I  heard  the  sound  of  music : 
Methought  thy  name  was  wafted  by  the  air 
With  most  harmonious  utterance. 

Isid.  Forgive  me,  aunt,  but  say  that  you  forgive  me ! 
You  shall  know  all. 

Inez.  I  do,  my  Isidora,  I  forgive  thee  {raises  her). 
But  I  must  have  thy  confidence,  my  child. 
Who  is  this  cavalier  ? 

Isid.  Alas  !  I  know  not. 

Inez.  Not  know,  my  Isidora  ?     Hast  thou  then 
Been  so  unwise  as  to  receive  a  stranger } 

Isid.  Alas  !  I  have,  but  too  much  for  my  peace. 

Inez.  Thou  lov'st  him  then  ?  [Isidora  throws  herself  into 
the  arms  of  Inez  and  bursts  into  tears.^ 
inside)  The  barb  has  entered  deeply.     (Aloud)  Isidora, 
Come,  come,  cheer  up,  my  love, 
I  mean  not  to  reproach.     All  may  yet  be  well. 

(Inez  kisses  Isidora,  and  they  separate,) 

Thou  say'st  he  is  a  stranger  ? 

Isid.  I  only  know  he  calls  himself  Don  Caspar. 
o  c 


34 


Olla  Podrida 


I  have  indeed  been  foolish. 

Inez.  Has  he  ne'er  mention*d  his  condition, 
His  family  or  descent  ? 

Lid.  Never ;  and  when  that  I  would  question  him, 
He  answers  vaguely.     There  is  some  mystery. 

Inez,  With  honest  love  concealment  never  dwells. 
When  does  he  come  again  ? 

hid.  To-morrow  even — and  he'll  keep  his  word. 

Inez.  Then  will  I  see  him.     Fear  not,  my  love, 
No  trifling  cause  shall  bar  thy  happiness. 
Be  he  but  gentle,  e'en  of  Moorish  blood. 
And  honest,  he  is  thine.     Go  to  thy  chamber, 
Thither  will  I  follow,  that  we  some  project 
May  devise,  which  shall  remove  all  obstacle. 

\Exit  Isidora, 
I  like  not  this  Don  Caspar,  and  my  heart 
Forebodes  some  evil  nigh.     I  may  be  wrong, 
But  in  my  sear'd  imagination, 
He  is  some  snake  whose  fascinating  eyes, 
Fix'd  on  my  trembling  bird,  have  drawn  her  down 
Into  his  pois'nous  fangs.     How  frail  our  sex  ! 
Prudence  may  guard  us  from  th'  assaults  of  passion. 
But  storm'd  the  citadel,  in  woman's  heart, 
Victorious  love  admits  no  armistice 
Or  sway  conjoint.     He  garrisons  alone.  [Exit  Inez, 


Act  III.     Scene  L 

The  monastery. — Procession  of  monks,  choristers,  Sffr.,  returning 

from  performing  service  in  the   chapel. — The  organ  sttll 

playing  in  the  chapel  within,  Anselmo  at  the  head  of  the 

choristers. — They  pass  on  bowing  to  the  Superior,  who, 

with  Manuel,  remain. — The  organ  ceases. 

Sup,  {looking  round).     Anselmo  hath   pass'd  on.     I   do 
observe, 


The  Monk  of  Seville 


35 


Of  late  he  shuns  communion.     'Tis  most  strange. 
Say,  Manuel,  hast  thou  discover'd  aught  ? 
Doth  he  continue  steadfast  and  devout  ? 
Or,  borne  away  by  youthful  phantasies. 
Neglect  the  duties  of  our  sacred  order  ? 

Man,  He  bears  himself  correctly,  and  e'er  since 
His  last  offence,  when  self-inflicted  pain 
Proved  his  contrition,  he  hath  ever  seem'd 
To  be  absorb'd  in  holy  meditation. 

Sup.  May  this  continue,  he's  of  great  import 

To  the  well  doing  of  our  monastery 

Yet  he  hath  not  of  late  confess'd  his  sins. 

Man,  Perchance    he    hath    not    err'd.       Forgive   me, 
Heav'n, 
Rash  words  like  these  when  all  are  born  to  sin ! 
I  deem'd  that  he  had  nothing  to  confess 
Except  the  warring  of  his  youthful  passions. 
O'er  which  he  strives  to  hold  dominion. 

Sup,  I  would  it  were  so ;  but,  too  frequently^ 
I  do  perceive  a  furtive  glance  of  fire 
From  'neath  his  fringed  eyelash  wildly  start. 
As  does  the  lightning  from  a  heavy  cloud : 
It  doth  denote  strong  passion — much  too  strong 
For  youthful  resolution  to  control. 

Man.  Why  then  permit  him  to  behold  the  world 
And  all  its  vanities  ?     'Tis  true,  our  coffers 
Are  somewhat  help'd  by  that  he  brings  to  them. 
Instructing  music,  a  gift  from  nature 
In  him  most  perfect.     Were  it  not  better 
That  he  within  our  cloister'd  gates  should  stay  ? 

Sup.  Then  would  he  pine  ;  for  our  monastic  vows 
Are  much  too  harsh,  too  rigid  save  for  those 
Who,  having  proved  the  world,  at  length  retire 
When  they  have  lost  the  appetite  to  sin. 
There's  much  depending  on  the  boy  Anselmo  -, 
He  is  a  prize  whose  worth  I  little  knew 
When  first  into  our  brotherhood  he  came. 

Man.  I  comprehend  you  not. 


35  Olla  Podrida 

Sup.  Thou  canst  not,  Manuel,  but  I  will  confide 
What  has  been  reveal'd  to  me  alone. 
"Well  thou  know'st  for  years  I  have  confessed 
The  Donna  Inez.     From  her  I  late  have  learn'd 
She  bore  a  child  in  wedlock,  which  she  lost  j 
And,  by  the  notices  which  she  has  given, 
I  find  him  in  Anselmo. 

Man.  In  Anselmo  !     Then  he's  the  rightful  heir 
To  all  the  Guzman  wealth. 

Sup.  'Tis  even  so. 

Man.  Father,  how  long  since  you  discover'd  this  ? 

Sup.  But  a  few  months  before  he  took  his  vows. 

Man.  Why  did  you  then  permit  them .? 

Sup.  To  serve  our  holy  church ;  which  either  way 
Must  gain  by  his  belonging  to  our  order. 
The  lady  mourns  her  son.     If  I  restore  him. 
She  must  be  grateful.     Thus  our  convent  will 
Become  endow'd  with  acres  of  broad  land. 
And  should  he  choose  still  to  retain  his  vows. 
When  he  has  learnt  the  story  of  his  birth, 
Then  will  our  monast'ry  no  doubt  receive 
The  wealth  he  values  not,  but  we  require. 

Man.  I  do  perceive — 'twas  prudently  arranged — 
What  wait  you  for  ? 

Sup.  To  see  if  he  will  turn  his  thoughts  to  Heav'n  j 
But,  look,  he  moves  this  way.     Leave  me  with  him. 

[Epcit  Manuel,  and  enter  Anselmo^, 
Where  hast  thou  been,  my  child  ? 

Ans.  Lending  mine  ear  to  those  who  would  unload 
A  conscience  heavy  with  repeated  sin — 
Giving  advice  and  absolution  free 
To  those  who  riot  in  a  sinful  world. 

Sup.  Yet  still  be  lenient.     We  in  holy  bonds 
Expect  not  men  exposed,  to  be  so  perfect. 
Tell  me,  for  lately  thou  hast  not  confess'd. 
How  throbs  thy  heart  }    Do  holy  thoughts  prevail  ? 
Art  thou  at  peace  within,  or  does  thy  youth 
Regret  its  vow,  and  yield  to  vain  repinings  ? 


The  Monk  of  Seville  ^ 

Ans.  I  am,  most  holy  father,  as  Heav'n  made  me — 
Content,  and  not  content,  as  in  their  turns 
The  good  or  evil  thoughts  will  be  ascendant. 
When  that  the  evil  thoughts  the  mastery  gain, 
I  try  to  curb  them.     Man  can  do  no  more. 

Sup.  At  thy  rebelling  age,  'tis  doing  much. 
Now  put  my  question  to  thy  inmost  soul 
And  answer  me  : — could'st  thou  rejoin  the  world 
And  all  its  pleasures,  now  so  bright  in  fancy 
To  youth's  all  ardent  mind,  tell  me  sincerely, 
Would'st  thou  reject  them  ? 

Ans,  Why  call  in  question  that  which  ne'er  can  be  ? 
My  vows  are  ta'en,  therefore  no  choice  is  mine. 

Sup.  Most  things  are  possible  to  mother  church, 
As  would  this  be — a  dispensation  sought 
Might  be  obtain'd. 

Ans.  {at  first  with  joy  in  his  countenance,  then  assuming  a 
mournful  expression).     It  would  not  be  a  kindness. 
Who,  my  father. 
In  this  wide  glorious  world  is  kindred  to  Anselmo  ? 
I  will  confess,  I  sometimes  have  indulged 
Half  dreaming  thoughts  (O  say  not  they  are  sinful !) 
Of  the  sweet  hours  of  those,  who,  lapp'd  in  bliss. 
See  brothers,  sisters,  offspring,  clust'ring  round. 
Loving  and  loved ;  then  have  I  wept  to  think 
That  I  have  none,  and  sadly  felt  convinced 
'Tis  for  my  happiness  that  I  am  here. 

Sup.  True,  my  Anselmo,  'tis  a  dreary  world, 
And  still  more  dreary  when  we've  nought  to  cling  to, 
But  say,  if  thou  hadst  found  a  doting  mother, 
One  that  was  nobly  born  and  rich,  who  hail'd 
In  thee  the  foundhng  heir  to  large  estates, 
What  then  ? 

Ans.  {starts,  and  after  a  pause).    I  cannot  say — my  thoughts 
ne'er  stray'd  so  far. 
Father,  you  oft  the  dangers  have  set  forth 
Of  dreaming  fancies  which  may  lead  astray ; 
Yet  do  you  try  to  tempt  me,  by  supposing  that 


38  Olla  Podrida 

Which  shakes  my  firmness,  yet  can  never  be. 
Sup,  We  are  but  mortal.     I  did  wish  to  know 

Thy  secret  thoughts,  and  thou  withhold'st  them  still. 

At  night  come  to  me,  then  shalt  thou  confess. 

For  I  would  learn  the  workings  of  thy  soul. 

Ans,  First  let  me  strive  to  calm  my  troubled  mind : 

I  will  confess  to-morrow. 

Sup,  Then,  be  it  so.  [Exit  Superior, 

Ans,  'Tis  strange.     He  ne'er  before  essay'd  me  thus. 

A  doting  mother,  wealthy  too,  and  noble ! 

O !  if  'twere  true,  and  I  could  gain  my  freedom  ! 

But  these  are  very  dreamings.     Hold,  my  brain ! 

For  he  has  conjured  up  a  vision  wild. 

And  beautiful  as  wild  !     Wealth,  ancestry, 

A  mother's  love  !     But  what  are  these  to  thee. 

Thou  monk  Anselmo  ?  go — go  and  hang  thy  head 

Within  the  cowl,  droop'd  humbly  on  thy  breast — 

For  know,  thou  art  a  monk,  and  vow'd  to  Heav'n  [ 

Oh  parents  stern  !  to  fling  me  thus  on  fate ! 

But  vows  more  stern  that  thus  debar  me  from 

The  common  rights  of  man  !     Why  were  we  made 

With  passions  strong,  that  even  Nature  laughs 

When  we  would  fain  control  them  ?     Lone  to  live 

And  die  are  rebel  acts,  to  Heav'n  unpleasing. 

Say  I  were  humbly  born  of  peasant  race, 

I  should  have  glided  on  the  silent  brook ; 

Or  highly  bred  and  nobly  father'd, 

Dash'd  proudly  like  the  rapid  flowing  river. 

But  in  these  confines  against  Nature  pent, 

I  must  remain  a  stagnant  torpid  lake ; 

Or  else  marking  my  wild  course  with  ruin, 

Till  my  force  is  spent  and  all  is  over. 

Burst  forth  a  mad,  ungovernable  torrent. 

Enter  Jacobo, 

Jac,  What  Anselmo  !  not  outside  the  convent  gates,  and 
service  over  this  half  hour!     By  St  Dominic,  it  is  as  I 


The  Monk  of  Seville 


39 


expected — thon  hast  fallen  in  with  the  Superior,  and  hast 
been  ordered  home  with  penance. 

Ans.  Not  so,  Jacobo.  The  Superior  and  I  roll  on  in 
different  orbits.  Saturn  and  Venus  are  as  like  to  jostle  as 
we  upon  our  travels. 

Jac.  Well,  I've  an  idea  that  there's  something  wrong, 
and  my  news  will  not  be  very  agreeable  to  you  :  the  key 
is,  in  future,  to  be  delivered  to  the  Superior  at  nine 
o'clock,  and,  if  required,  it  must  be  sent  for. 

Ans.  Indeed!  then  he  must  suspect  that  we  are  not 
so  regular.  Still,  I  must  out  to-night,  Jacobo — I  must 
indeed ! 

Jac,  Impossible  ! 

Ans.  {giving  him  money).  I  must,  Jacobo.  Here's  for  thy 
wine,  much  watching  needs  it. 

Jac,  The  Superior  calls  me,  brother ;  I  only  wish  there 
was  brotherhood  in  our  drinking.  The  noble  juice  which 
mantles  in  his  cup  would  cheer  me  in  my  vigils. 

Ans.  And  that  will  purchase  it.  I  must  be  out  to-night. 
Let  the  Superior  have  the  key,  but  do  not  lock  the  door. 
You  understand,  Jacobo  ? 

Jac.  I  do  j  but  there's  danger  in  it.  Holy  Virgin  !  the  Sup- 
erior comes  this  way.    Anselmo,  you  had  better  to  your  cell. 

Ans.     I  detest  it.     Now  must  I  play  the  hypocrite. 

Enter  Superior  followed  by  Jacobo, 

Sup.  (observing  Anselmo).  Thou  here,  my  son !  I 
thought  thee  at  thy  cell. 

Ans.  I  wish'd  to  seek  it ;  but  till  vesper  chimes 
I  must  employ  in  teaching  melody ; 
But  that  the  coffers  of  our  holy  church 
Receive  the  thrift,  my  mind  were  ill  at  ease 
Thus  mixing  with  the  world  ;  for  holy  vigils 
Are  better  suited  to  my  early  years. 
(^Kneeling.)  O  bless,  my  father,  my  untoward  youth 
And  teach  my  thoughts  to  find  the  path  to  Heav'n. 

Sup.  {bending  over  Anselmo).  Bless  thee,  my  child,  may 
thy  young  heart 


40  Olla  Podrida 

Turn  now  to  Heav'n,  as  Samuel's  did  of  old  ! 
May  holy  thoughts  pervade  thy  youthful  mind  ! 
May  holy  dreams  enrich  thy  peaceful  sleep  ! 
May  heavenly  choristers  descend  in  visions, 
And  point  thee  out  the  joys  awaiting  those 
Who  dedicate  on  earth  their  lives  to  Heav'n. 

[Exit  Superior,  after  blessing  Anselmo. 
—  Anselmo,  still  kneeling^  watches 
the  departure  of  the  Superior, 

Ans.  (rising).     He's  safe. 

Jac,  Hah,  hah  !  do  you  edify  ? 

Ans.  Peace,  peace,  Jacobo !  'Tis  time  that  I  were 
gone. 

Jac,     You  will  return  before  the  door  is  lock'd  ? 

Ans,  Because  you  will  not  lock  it.  I  shall  be  home  at 
midnight :  it  must  be  so,  Jacobo.  If  not,  expect  no 
further  gifts  from  me ;  and  what  is  more,  a  full  con- 
fession of  the  many  times  you  have  been  bribed  to  secrecy. 

l^Exit  Anselmo, 

Jac.  Why,  what  a  penance  if  this  should  be  discovered ! 
They  know  how  much  I  love  my  wine,  and  always  punish 
me  with  water.  I  should  have  to  drink  the  Guadalquiver 
dry  before  the  Superior  would  give  me  absolution.  Well, 
we  all  have  our  besetting  sin;  and  a  pot  of  good  wine 
will  put  my  soul  in  more  jeopardy  than  all  the  temptations 
that  the  world  contains.  I  suppose  I  must  forget  to  lock 
the  door.  I'll  only  bolt  it ;  that  will  satisfy  my  conscience 
as  a  porter.  [Exit  Jacobo. 

Scene  II, 
Street  before  Don  Gaspares  lodgings. — Enter  Antonio, 

Ant.  I  wonder  where  my  master  is  !  I  expected  him 
sooner.  He  may  be  in  his  chamber,  but  'tis  impossible  to 
say.  Why,  here  comes  Beppa,  and  that  knave  Garcias 
with  her.  I've  often  thought  they  are  too  intimate;  I 
will  retire  and  watch  them. 


The  Monk  of  Seville  41 

Enter  Beppa,  followed  by  Garcias. — Antonio  advances  behind, 

Bep.  But,  Garcias,  is  this  true  ? 

Gar.  It  is,  upon  my  faith  !  Sancho  revealed  it  in  his 
cups.  Don  Perez,  afraid  to  encounter  with  Don  Gaspar, 
has  hired  bravos  to  dispatch  him. 

Bep.  I  rejoice  at  it,  A  wretch  like  him  deserves  no 
better  fate,  and  my  poor  mistress  will  be  well  revenged. 
Indeed,  his  servant  is  no  better. 

Gar.  What !  your  dear  husband  ? 

Bep.  My  scoundrel  husband !  Unhappy  day  I  married 
him !  It  was  but  yesterday  that  I  found  him  kissing 
another. 

Gar.  Indeed  ! — You  can  revenge  yourself. 

Bep.  I  almost  wish  I  could. 

Gar.  {kissing  her  hand).     Then  kiss  again. 

Bep.  Pshaw !  that's  but  poor  revenge. 

Gar.  I'll  join  the  bravos,  and  strike  him  down,  if  you 
will  marry  me. 

Bep.  Not  so,  good  sir  :  it  were  indeed  to  make  a  better 
choice,  to  take  a  murderer  in  second  wedlock.  I  ask  but 
to  be  free ;  and  leave  the  time  to  Heaven. 

Gar.  Then  fare  ye  well.  \^Exit  Garcias, 

Ant.  A  very  pretty  proposal,  and  a  very  pretty  plot 
have  I  discovered  !  yet  will  I  conceal  my  knowledge. 
{Shows  himself.)  Good  day,  again,  my  Beppa !  Who 
is  that  friend  of  yours  ?  {smacking  lips  in  imitation  of 
kissing). 

Bep.  {after  a  pause).  Well,  good  husband,  how  could 
I  help  it  ? 

Ant.  How  could  you  help  it ! 

Bep.  My  mistress  ordered  me. 

Ant.  Oh,  I  understand  ! 

Bep.  Yes,  only  a  Httle  by-play,  you  know. 

Ant.  Or  else  you  must  quit  your  service.  Pray  who  is 
the  gentleman  to  whom  your  mistress  is  making  love  ? 

Bep.  That's  a  secret. 

Ant.  Of  course  she  gave  you  ten  moidores  for  me. 


42  Olla  Podrida 

Bep.  Really  I  don't  remember. 

Ant.  Indeed!  why,  thou — thou — 

Bep.  Good  morning.  I  must  to  my  mistress.  Adieu, 
Antonio.  [Exit  Beppa. 

Ant.  Well;  I  like  thee  better  than  usual.  Thou  hast 
refused  him  for  me,  and  would  not  have  him  murder  me ; 
that's  something  in  a  wife  now-a-days.  I  have  obtained  a 
key  which  fits  my  master's  door ;  and  now  I  feel  assured 
he'll  not  come  back,  I'll  find  his  secret  out.  I  must  be 
quick.  Suppose  he  should  be  there.  Impossible !  he 
would  have  summoned  me.     At  all  events  I'll  risk  it. 

[Exit  Antonio. 

Scene  III, 
Interior  of  Don  Gaspars  room. — Enter  Antonio. 

Ant.  Pugh !  what  a  heat  I'm  in !  I  really  tremble  with 
delight  or  fear — I  can't  tell  which.  If  he  should  come, 
what  shall  I  say  ?  Oh,  the  news  I  gained  from  Beppa. 
That  will  do.  (Looking  round.)  Well,  I  see  nothing  after 
all.  Why  should  he  keep  his  chamber  locked  ?  But,  then, 
there's  that  chest ;  let  me  try — locked  fast ; — nothing  to  be 
gained  from  that.  Still,  he  comes  in  by  some  other  way 
than  the  door,  that's  clear ;  we  must  have  a  search  for  a 
trap  door.  (He  looks  round,  and  then  under  the  bed.  While 
he  is  on  his  knees,  feeling  the  boards,  Don  Gaspar  enters  by  the 
secret  sliding  panel,  and  observing  him,  draws  his  snvord,  and^ 
as  Antonio  rises,  he  points  it  to  his  breast?^ 

Gasp.  Villain  !  how  cam'st  thou  hither  ? 

Ant.  (much  alarmed).  Sir,  sir,  I  came — came  (recovers 
himself) — I  came  to  save  your  life,  unless  it  please  you  to 
take  mine  before  I  can  speak  to  you. 

Gasp.  To  save  my  life  ! 

Ant.  Yes,  sir ;  I  knew  not  where  to  find  you  ;  I  thought 
you  might  be  here,  and  so  I  forced  the  lock  with  a  rusty 
key.  I  meant  to  say,  that  I  knew  you  had  another  way 
out  from  your  chamber,  and  I  have  been  looking  for  it, 
that  I  might  hasten  to  you,  to  save  your  life. 


The  Monk  of  Seville  43. 

Gasp.  "Well,  sirrah,  first  prove  to  me  that  you  can  save 
my  life,  and  then,  perhaps,  I  may  overlook  this  impertinent 
intrusion. 

Ant.  Sir,  I  overheard  a  conversation  between  the  valet 
of  Don  Felix  and  a  woman,  in  which  they  stated  that 
bravos  were  hired  by  Don  Perez  to  waylay  and  murder 
you,  Don  Perez  not  caring  to  meet  you  with  his  sword. 
This  night  they  wait  for  you. 

Gasp.  Is  Don  Perez  then  so  basely  treacherous  ? 

Ant.  Indeed  he  is,  sir !  You  must  not  out  to-night. 

Gasp.  I  must,  and  fear  them  not.  For  this  I  overlook 
your  prying — nay,  more,  I  will  in  confidence  explain  the 
secret  of  this  chamber  ;  but,  mark  you  !  keep  it,  or  I  shall 
soil  my  rapier  with  thy  knavish  blood.  This  private 
entrance  hath  much  served  me  (^showing  the  sliding  panel). 

Ant.  May  I  be  so  bold  as  to  ask  how  ? 

Gasp.  It  oft  has  saved  my  life.  It  is  about  a  year  since, 
and  about  three  months  before  you  entered  my  service, 
that  I  gained  the  love  of  one  named  Julia ;  she  was  too 
fond,  and  urged  me  to  marry  her,  which  I  refused.  Her 
brothers,  who  were  at  home  at  the  time,  wrested  from 
her  the  cause  of  those  tears  which  she  could  not  control. 
I  met  them  both,  and  with  ease  disarmed  them  5  I  did  not 
wish  to  slay  them,  I  had  already  done  them  injury.  These 
officers,  who  were  more  annoyed  by  my  conquest  than 
even  their  sister's  shame,  hired  bravos,  as  Perez  now  has 
done,  who  sought  to  murder  me.  Each  night  that  I  went 
home  I  found  them  near  my  door :  twice  I  fought  an 
entrance  to  my  own  house ;  a  friend,  who  was  aware  of 
the  inveteracy  of  those  who  toiled  to  procure  my  assassina- 
tion, hired  me  this  chamber.  For  months  they  watched 
the  door  with  disappointment,  until  the  brothers  being 
recalled  to  join  their  troops  in  Murcia,  the  bravos  ceased 
their  persecutions. 

Ant.  How  did  you  escape  them  in  the  city,  senor  } 

Gasp,  In  daylight  I  was  safe  j  at  night  I  wore  the  garb 
of  a  holy  monk,  that  lies  upon  that  chair.  You'll  keep 
my  secret } 


44  011a  Podrida 

Ant.  Yes,  sir,  when  I  know  it. 

Gasp.  Have  I  not  told  it  you  ? 

Ant.  You  have  told  me  that  at  times  you  are  a  monk, 
and  at  times  a  cavalier.  Which  is  the  real  character,  him 
of  the  rosary,  or  him  of  the  rapier  ? 

Gasp,  {aside).  The  knave  is  deep.  (Aloud.)  I  am  a  monk 
but  when  it  suits  me. 

Ant.  But,  sir,  is  there  not  danger  in  thus  assuming  a 
holy  character,  if  it  were  known — the  Inquisition  ? 

Gasp.  I  grant  it :  but  we  do  many  things  which,  if 
known,  would  subject  us  to  something  unpleasant.  I 
serve  two  mistresses  ;  but,  should  I  marry  them  both 

Ant.  {starting  back).  Then  would  you  to  the  galleys,  at 
least. 

Gasp.  Exactly  so.  I  merely  put  the  case,  for  I  was 
told  by  Donna  Isidora's  maid,  you  are  her  husband ;  and 
this  I  also  know,  from  your  own  mouth,  you  are  married 
to  Beppa. 

Ant.  There's  some  mistake,  sir ;  for  Nina  is  married  to 
one  whose  name  is  Lopez.     I  cannot,  sure,  be  he  ! 

Gasp.  If  I  can  be  both  monk  and  cavalier,  as  you 
assert,  why  may  not  you  be  Lopez  and  Antonio  ? 
A  name  is  changed  as  easily  as  a  garment.  But  in 
your  face  I  read  conviction ;  I'm  certain  you  have  two 
wives ! 

Ant.  It  must  be  as  you  please,  sir.  Perhaps  I  may  have 
confessed  as  much  to  you  as  a  holy  monk. 

Gasp.  {Laughs.)  When  did  you  ever  meet  me  in  a 
church  ? 

Ant.  I  do  not  say  I  have,  sir ;  but  then  your  knowledge 
is  so  certain 

Gasp.  Suppose,  then,  that  I  know  your  secrets,  thou 
wilt  surely  not  reveal  mine.  There's  for  thine  intelli- 
gence.    {Throws  him  a  purse.) 

Ant.  May  Heaven  preserve  my  gracious  master ! 

Gasp.  This  night  must  I  to  Donna  Serafina's. 

Ant.  Will  you,  then,  venture  forth  ? 

Gasp.  Yes,  I'll  robe  myself  as  holy  monk.     They  dare 


The  Monk  of  Seville  4j 

not  strike,  even  though  they  have  suspicion.     You  may 
go.     I  shall  not  return  to-night. 

[Exit  Antonio, 
Scoundrel ! — he  is  too  cunning  to  believe  me — 
Yet  still  I  have  the  secret  of  his  wives. 
{Muses.)     This  night  I  have  discovered  the  base  Perez 
Again  essays  his  most  inconstant  fair, 
Blind  as  inconstant.     She  rejected  me 
When,  as  Friar  Anselmo  teaching  music, 
I  ofFer'd  her — 'tis  true,  unholy  love  ; 
And  I  by  Perez  was  thrust  out  with  shame, 
Spurn'd  with  contumely  as  the  door  was  closed. 
With  threats  if  ever  I  appear'd  again. 
To  blazon  forth  my  impious  attempt,  and — 
Yet  did  she  cozen  me  with  melting  eyes, 
And  first  roused  up  the  demon  in  my  breast. 

Then  laugh'd  in  malice. 1  hate  her  for  it  I 

Now  as  Don  Caspar,  I've  supplanted  him, 
Pride  and  revenge,  not  love,  impelling  me ; 
These  gratified,  I  would  shake  off  a  chain 
Which  now,  in  amorous  violence,  she'd  rivet. 
Further,  Don  Perez,  in  his  jealous  mood. 
Has  as  Don  Caspar  braved  me.     They  shall  find, 
I  hold  life  cheap  when  I  would  have  revenge ! 

[Exit. 
Scene  IV, 

A  garden  near  the  house  of  Donna  Serajina,  which  is  in  the 
back  of  the  scene. — A  balcony. — Enter  Gaspar  in  a  friar's 
dress y  over  that  of  a  cavalier, 

I  pass'd  them,  and  they  bow'd  unto  my  blessing. 

Why,  what  a  world  of  treachery  is  this  ! 

Who  would  imagine  that  this  holy  robe, 

Professing  but  humility  and  love, 

Conceal'd  the  cavalier,  swelling  in  pride. 

Seeking  revenge,  and  thirsting  for  hot  blood  ? 

Off  with  this  first  disguise  !     {Throws  offfriar^s  gown^ 

What  then  appears  ? 


46  Olla  Podrida 

A  fair  proportion,  more  deceiving  still. 

In  holy  garb  I  fret  within  my  cell, 

Sigh  for  the  joyous  world  I  have  renounced, 
And  spurn  the  creed  which  hath  immured  me  there. 
When  like  the  chrysalis  I  'scape  my  prison, 
And  range  a  free  and  garish  butterfly, 
I  find  the  world  so  hollow,  base,  and  vile. 
That,  in  my  mood,  I  hasten  back  once  more. 
With  thoughts  of  never  wand'ring  forth  again. 
But,  see, — Don  Perez  comes.     I  will  retire. 

\Gaspar  withdraws. 

Enter  Perez, 

Perez,  Fool  that  I  am !  like  some  robb'd  bird  to  hover 
About  the  nest  that's  void.     Her  heart's  not  mine. 
'Tis  now  three  moons  that  I  have  sued  in  vain ; 
Her  casement  closed  by  night,  her  door  by  day. 
O  woman,  woman  !  thy  mysterious  power 
Chains  the  whole  world,  and  men  are  nought  but  slaves 
Unto  the  potent  talisman — 
If  man  prove  false  and  treach'rous,  he  is  spurn'd, 
Contemn'd,  and  punish'd  with  resentment  just. 
To  woman  faithless  still  we  kneel  and  sue, 
For  that  return  our  reason  holds  as  worthless. 
Well !  this  shall  be  my  last — for,  by  yon  moon, 
So  oft  a  witness  to  my  fervent  vows, 
So  true  an  emblem  of  inconstant  beauty. 
This  night  I  woo  her  back,  or  woo  no  more. 

\Retires ;    sings   to  his  guitar,  unseen; 
or  beckons  on  chorus. 

Ere  lady  that  you  close  in  sleep 
Those  eyes  that  I  would  die  to  view, 
Think,  think  on  mine  that  watch  and  weep, 
And  on  my  heart  that  breaks  for  you  I 

The  sun  does  not  disdain  to  turn, 
And  on  the  meanest  weed  to  shine, 
That  scorch'd  up  dies,  and  seems  to  burn 
With  love,  as  hopelessly  as  mine. 


The  Monk  of  Seville  47 

One  look — one  word — hear,  hear  my  call  I 
O  cruel !  can  you  still  deny 
One  look, — though  it  in  scorn  should  fall  ? 
One  word, — although  it  bid  me  die  ? 

Perez,  coming  forward,  looking  up  at  the  ivindow  after  pause. 
She  will  not  hear,  nor  bless  me  with  her  sight ! 

Enter  Gaspar  in  cavalier* s  dress. 

Gasp,  Well  met,  Don  Perez.     Thus  I  keep  my  word. 
And  "  when  you  least  do  wish  it,"  I  am  here. 
Was  it  well  done  to  send  out  hired  stilettos 
When  you  had  challenged  me  to  measure  swords  ? 

Perez  {aside).  The  scoundrels  then  have  miss'd  him ! 
{Aloud.)         Know,  Don  Gaspar, 
I  do  not  deem  thee  worthy  of  my  steel. 
But,  as  we  meet — 'tis  well — defend  thyself!  (Draws.) 

Gasp.  Defend  thyself  Don  Perez  !  Thy  best  might 
And  skill  befriend  thee, — else  thy  life  is  nought ! 

{They  fight  round.     Don  Perez  falls  ^ 

Perez.  Fm  slain  !  Don  Gaspar,  or  whoe'er  thou  art. 
If  thou  have  Christian  charity,  seek  out 
Some  holy  man.     (Gaspar  retires.)     He's  gone  ! 

[Gaspar,  with  friar'' s  gown   and  hood  on, 
returns  to  Don  Perez. 

Gasp.  Look  up,  Don  Perez  !  Knowest  thou  this  form  ? 
Thou  dost  require  some  holy  man  to  shrive  thee. 

Ere  thou  pass  away. Don  Perez,  answer ! 

Know'st  thou  this  form, — these  features  ? 

Perez.  Thou  art   the  Friar  Anselmo.     I  have  wrong'd 
thee. 
And  ask  forgiveness.     O  then  pardon  me  ! 
And,  as  thou  hop'st  t'  enjoy  eternal  life. 
Feel  no  resentment  'gainst  a  dying  man  ! 
{Faintly.)  Shrive  me,  good  father,  for  I'm  sinking  fast. 
Yon  stream  of  blood  will  not  creep  on  its  course 
Another  foot,  ere  I  shall  be  no  more. 


48  Olla  Podrida 

Gasp.  Thou  saw'st  Anselmo,     Now  raise  up  thine  eyes, 

(Throws  off  Ms  disguise,) 
And  see  Don  Caspar  !  who  has  just  reveng'd 
The  wrongs  inflicted  on  the  spurn'd  at  monk. 

Perez,  Whoe'er  thou  art,  mysterious,  awful  being  ! 
At  least  be  satisfied  with  thy  revenge. 
If  thou  art  holy,  shrive  me  ! 

Gasp,  I  am  a  monk,  and  yet  not  holy  {putting  on  gown. 

and  folding  his  arms), 

Perez,  If  thou  art  a  monk  by  vows,  thou'rt  holy. 
'Tis  not  my  blood  that's  now  upon  thy  hand. 
And  shall  hereafter  be  upon  thy  soul. 
Which  makes  thee  less  so :  thou'rt  but  an  instrument. 
I  pray  thee,  shrive  me,  that  my  guilty  soul 
May  quit  in  peace  this  tenement  of  clay. 

Gasp.  Does  he  not  speak  the  truth  ?    Tell  me,  my  heart, 
I  think — I  feel 1  can  forgive  him  now  ! 

\Gaspar  takes  out  his  crucifix,  returns  to  Don  Perez, 
andy  kneeling,  presents  it  to  him,  Perez  kisses 
the  crucifix,  and  falls  back  dead,  Gaspar  remains 
hanging  over  him, 

Don  Felix  (without).  What  hoa  ! 

Enter  Don  Felix  with  servants  bearing  torches. 

Gasp,  (still  kneeling  by  the  body).  Who  calls  ? 

Felix,  We  seek  Don  Perez,  who  this  way  did  bend 
His  steps  some  hours  ago  ;  and  not  returning 
At  th'  appointed  time,  we  fear  some  mischief 
Hath  befallen  him. 

Gasp,  Behold  then  here  the  body  of  some  gallant. 
Whose  face  I  know  not.     As  I  pass'd  this  way 
I  heard  the  clash  of  high  and  fierce  contention. 
And  when  I  came,  this  most  unhappy  man 
Lay  breathing  here  his  last.     I  shrived  him, 
And  he  since  has  died. 

Felix,  It  is  Don  Perez.     Holy  father,  saw  you 
The  other  party  in  the  contest  ^ 


The  Monk  of  Seville  49 

Gasp.  Save  that  a  manly  figure  flitted  by, 
And  vanished  in  the  shadow  of  yon  trees. 

Felix,  Raise  up  the  corpse,  and  bear  it  to  my  house. 
This  bloody  work,  Don  Caspar,  must  be  thine ! 
Perez,  thou  hear'st  me  not !  but,  by  this  sword, 
I  will  revenge  thy  death  ! 

[Exit  Do?i  Felix  and  servants  carrying  body. 

Gasp.  Thus  far  have  I  escaped  suspicion — 
Now  will  I  to  the  monastery. 

[Casement  opens,  and  Donna  Serajina  appears  at 
ivindow.^ 

Ser.  Who's  there  ? 

Gasp,  (aside).  I  had  forgotten  her. 

Ser.  Who's  there  ? 

Gasp.  A  father  of  the  neighbouring  monastery. 
Attracted  hither  by  the  clash  of  swords. 
And  but  in  time  to  shrive  a  dying  man. 

Ser.  Good  father,  didst  thou  hear  the  names  of  those 
Who  were  engaged  ? 

Gasp.  Not  of  the  murderer,  who  has  escaped. 
The  one  whose  body  has  been  borne  away. 
Was  call'd Don  Caspar. 

Ser.  Don  Caspar  !  Father,  surely  thou  mistak'st  ? 
It  was  the  other  cavalier  who  fell. 

Gasp.  The  words  of  dying  men  are  those  of  truth  ; 
He  call'd  himself  Don  Caspar,  and  he  begg'd 
I  would  take  off  his  scarf,  and,  with  his  love, 
Bear  it  to  Donna  Serafina. 

Ser.  Then  it  is  true — and  I  am  lost  for  ever ! 
Father,  recall  those  words,  those  dreadful  words  I 
Say  'twas  not  Don  Caspar,  and  I'll  load 
Thy  monastery  with  the  wealth  of  India. 
Its  shrines  shall  blaze  with  gold  and  precious  gems. 
And  holy  relics  shall  be  purchased  thee. 
To  draw  all  faithful  Christians  to  thy  gates  ! 

Gasp.  I  cannot  change  the  name,  and,  if  I  could, 
o  D 


50  Olla  Podrida 

'Twere  no  less  a  murder.     Lady,  good-night. 

Ser.  Good  father,  stop — thou  hast  a  scarf 
For  Donna  Serafina.     I  am  she — 
Where  is  it  ?  give  it  me. 

Gasp.  Are  you  that  woe-struck  lady,  Serafina  ? 
Alas  !  indeed  you  have  much  cause  to  grieve. 
He  loved  you  well. 

Ser,  Give  me  the  scarf. 

Gasp.  I  cannot,  lady  ;  'tis  not  fit  to  offer, 
For  it  is  tinged  with  blood. 

Ser.  Give  me  the  scarf!  I'll  kiss  away  the  blood. 
Or  wash  it  off  with  tears  ! 

Gasp.  That  I  cannot,  the  casement  is  too  high  -, 
Nor  can  I  tarry  longer.     The  last  message. 
Together  with  the  scarf,  I  will  deliver 
Before  to-morrow's  sun  shall  gild  these  trees. 

Ser.  Then  be  it  so.     O  Gaspar  !   Gaspar  ! 

\JExit  from  ivindoiu,  and  closes  it. 

Gasp.  One  hour  of  misery,  like  hers,  exceeds 
An  age  of  common  earthly  suffering  ; 
And  when  at  last  she  hears  the  unvarnish'd  truth, 
'Twill  but  perplex  her  more.     Oh  destiny  ! 
Why  am  I  thus  a  blood-stain'd  guilty  man 
In  early  years  ?  still  yearning  towards  virtue. 
Yet  ever  falling  in  the  snares  of  vice  ! 
Now  do  I  loathe  the  amorous  Serafina, 
Who  sacrifices  all — her  fame — her  honour, 
At  Passion's  shrine.     How  do  I  adore 
The  chaste,  the  innocent,  sweet  Isidora  ! 
Yet  in  my  love,  so  ardent  and  so  pure. 
There's  guilt — deep  damning  guilt — and  more, 
There's  cruelty  and  baseness  !     I  plant  a  dagger 
In  the  fond  breast  that  cherishes  the  wound  ; 
Nor  will  she  feel  the  pain  until  withdrawn, 
And  happiness — nay,  life — will  issue  with  it. 
How  inconsistent,  selfish,  treacherous  ! 
Heav'n  pardon  me — how  can  I  pardon  ask 
For  that  I  never  can  forgive  myself !  [Exit  Gaspar, 


The  Monk  of  Seville  51 

Act  IV,      Scene  L 

Street  before  Anselmo's  lodgings. 

Enter  Antonio. 

Ant.  At  last  I  have  his  secret,  and  one  of  moment  too. 
A  monk,  and  yet  a  cavalier  !  A  friar's  gown  and  a  gala 
suit  !  vowing  to  heaven  and  vowing  to  the  ladies  !  Ab- 
juring the  world,  and  roaming  through  it  with  a  vengeance  ! 
Telling  his  beads,  and  telling  me  lies  !  But  I  am  not  so 
easily  to  be  deceived.  I  thought  very  often  that  there  was 
a  similarity  of  voice  between  his  and  my  confessor's,  but 
when  I  saw  the  friar's  gown,  and  he  accused  me  of  having 
two  wives,  it  all  flashed  upon  me  at  once.  A  pretty 
fool  has  he  made  of  me  !  No  wonder  that  he  knew  my 
rogueries  when  I  confessed  them  to  him.  What's  the 
having  two  wives  to  this  .''  Mine  is  a  paltry  secret  of  a 
poor  lacquey,  but  his  is  one  which  will  obtain  a  price,  and 
it  is  well  to  be  first  in  the  market.  Whom  shall  I  sell  it 
to  ?  let  me  see — Don  Felix ^. 

Enter   Beppa. 

Bep.  What  of  Don  Felix,  husband  ?  Do  you  wish  to 
serve  him  } 

Ant.  Yes,  if  he'll  pay  me  well. 

Bep.  I  presume  Don  Caspar  has  not  paid  you  :  then 
must  you  help  yourself. 

Ant.  Why  so  I  do,  whenever  I  can.  But  he  takes  care 
of  that. 

Bep.  He  might  have  done,  but  hardly  will  do  so  now. 

Ant.  Why  not  ? 

Bep.  Because  he's  dead. 

Ajit.  Dead  !     Are  you  sure  of  that } 

Bep.  Quite  sure,  for  I  myself  beheld  the  contest.  Such 
fierce  exchange  of  hate  I  ne'er  imagined,  or  that  you  men 
were  such  incarnate  devils. 


52 


Olla  Podrida 


Ant,  Pray  tell  me  where  this  happened. 

Bep.  'Twas  in  the  garden  near  our  house,  under  the 
chestnut  trees,  deep  in  the  shade.  The  full  moon  could 
not  pierce  the  closely  woven  foliage.  All  her  beams  were 
caught  on  the  topmost  boughs  which  waved  in  silver. 
A  lovely  night  to  stain  with  murder !  Oh  me  !  I  see 
them  now. 

Afit.  Proceed,  good  Beppa,  I'm  eager  to  know  all. 

Bep.  Their  forms  were  not  distinct,  yet  could  we  per- 
ceive their  gleaming  swords  darting  like  fiery  serpents  ; 
'twas  horrible.  At  last  one  fell ;  it  proved  to  be  Don 
Caspar. 

Ant.  Indeed  !  you're  sure  there's  no  mistake  ? 

Bep.  I  saw  the  body  borne  away.  My  mistress  weeps 
and  tears  her  hair,  nor  deems  that  he  was  false.  I  must 
to  the  church,  but  will  return  again  immediately.        [Exit. 

Ant.  Now  could  I  weep,  and  tear  my  hair,  like  Donna 
Serafina.  My  secret  is  worth  nothing.  'Tis  strange,  too, 
that  he  should  be  o'ermatched  by  Don  Perez,  whose  sword 
he  so  despised ;  I  cannot  yet  believe  it ;  and  yet,  she  saw 
the  body,  and  her  mistress  weeps.  What  can  she  gain  by 
this,  if  'twere  deceit  ?  Nothing.  Why,  then,  'tis  plain 
Don  Caspar's  dead.  His  foot  slipped,  I  suppose,  and  thus 
the  vaunted  skill  of  years  will  often  fail  through  accident. 
What's  to  be  done  now  }  I'm  executor  of  course.  Here 
comes  Don  Felix. 

Enter  Don  Felix. 

Felix.  Art  thou  the  lacquey  of  Don  Caspar  ? 

Ant.  {pulling  out  his  handkerchief,  and  putting  it  to  his  eyes). 
I  was,  most  noble  sir. 

Felix.  You've  left  him  then  ? 

Ant.  He  hath  left  me.  Last  night  he  fell,  in  combat 
with  Don  Perez. 

Felix.  'Tis  false.  He  hath  slain  my  friend,  whose  body 
now  lies  in  my  house. 

Afit..  Indeed,  sir  !  may  I  credit  this  ? 


The  Monk  of  Seville  53 

Felix,  I  tell  you  it  is  true.  Where  can  a  message  find 
your  master  ? 

Ant.  Wherever  he  may  be,  sir. 

Felix.  And  where  is  that  ?  Trifle  not  with  me,  knave,  or 
you'll  repent  it  sorely. 

Ant.  I  do  not  trifle,  sir.  Don  Caspar's  motions  are  un- 
known to  me.  Give  me  your  message  ;  when  he  re-appears 
I  will  deliver  it. 

Felix.  Then  tell  him  he's  a  villain  of  no  parentage  ;  a  vile 
impostor  whom  I  mean  to  punish ; — that  if  there's  manhood 
in  him  he  will  appoint  a  time  and  place  where  we  may  meet. 

Ant.  You  seek  his  life  then  ? 

Felix.  You  may  so  construe  by  the  message. 

Ant.  Pardon  me,  sir ;  but  will  you  risk  your  noble 
person  against  one  but  too  well  practised  in  the  sword  ? 
Excuse  me,  sir,  you're  hasty :  there  are  other  means  more 
fitting  for  your  purpose.  I  have  his  secret  ;  one  that  will 
administer  to  your  revenge,  and  win  a  triumph  far  greater 
than  your  sword. 

Felix.  Tell  me  this  secret. 

Ant.  Why  should  I  sacrifice  a  liberal  master,  whom,  just 
now,  you  saw  me  weep  for  ?  and  that  to  one  to  whom  I 
have  no  obligation  ? 

Felix.  I  understand  thee,  knave !  Thou'lt  sell  it  me  ? 
{Takes  out  a  purse.) 

Ant.  Softly,  Don  Felix  !  it  bears  no  common  price,  nor 
can  I  tell  it  here.  I've  paid  most  dearly  for  it,  and  from 
distress  alone  am  now  obliged  to  sell  it. 

Felix.  And  I  will  buy  it  dearly.  In  half  an  hour  come  to 
my  house  ;  there  will  exchange  a  heavy  purse  for  what  you 
may  confide  to  me,  if,  as  you  say,  it  leads  to  his  perdition. 

[Exit  Felix. 

Ant.  So,  this  works  well ;  and  yet  my  conscience  smites 
me  !  Why  does  it  smite  me  ?  Because  'tis  heavily  laden. 
With  what .?  This  secret.  Then  must  I  unburthen  myself 
of  it ;  and  as,  till  lately,  I  have  confessed  to  one  Don 
Caspar,  I  will  now  confess  to  one  Don  Felix.  The 
former  refused  me  absolution — the  latter  offers  me  a  purse. 


54  011a  Podrida 

I  was  right  when  I  gave  warning  to  my  old  confessor ;  the 
new  one  is  more  suited  to  me.  Here  come  my  ten  plagues 
of  Egypt  in  one. 

Enter  Beppa, 

Bep.  Well,  Antonio,  you  have  lost  no  time,  I  hope. 
What  have  you  collected  ?  You  often  quote  the  proverb, 
"  Service  is  no  inheritance." 

Ant.  Service  is  no  inheritance  ;  yet  you  would  that  I 
constituted  myself  my  master's  heir.  I  cannot  do  it,  Beppa 
— I  dare  not  !  There's  something  tells  me  it  is  wrong  to 
rob  so  good  a  master ;  I  am  more  honest  than  you  take  me 
to  be. 

Bep.  Then  is  the  devil  turned  saint !  Think  not  that 
you  deceive  me.  There's  nought  but  cowardice  that  will 
prevent  your  knavery.  Now  tell  me,  how  long  have  you 
been  thus  scrupulous  ? 

Ant.  Ever  since  I  found  out  that  my  master  was  not  dead. 

Bep.  Not  dead  ? 

Ant.  Don  Perez  'twas  who  fell. 

Bep.  A  holy  friar  who  shrived  the  dying  man  told  me 
the  name  of  him  who  fell  was  Caspar. 

Ant.  He  was  a  holy  friar,  said  you  ?  I  see  it  all 
(^aside). 

Bep.  He  said  he  had  a  scarf  to  give  to  Donna  Serafina, 
at  the  request  of  him  who  died. 

Ant.  Hath  he  delivered  it  ? 

Bep.  No ;  and  Donna  Serafina  in  frantic  grief  awaits  his 
coming. 

Ant.  {aside).  She'll  wait  till  doomsday  ;  I  understand  it 
all.  {Aloud.)  Beppa  !  Don  Caspar  now  will  soon  be  here  ; 
go  and  console  your  mistress. 

Bep.  Then  it  must  have  been  a  plan  of  Don  Caspar's  to 
rid  himself  of  my  mistress.  I  do  not  understand  it,  but 
believe  you  do.  When  master  and  man  are  so  much  alike, 
they  cannot  deceive  each  other.  I'll  to  Donna  Serafina, 
and  tell  her  of  this  base  stratagem,  which,  with  his 
wooing  of  another,  will  make  her  cease  to  grieve  for  the 


The  Monk  of  Seville  SS 

treacherous  villain,  and    turn   her   ardent    love  to  deadly 
hate.  [£xit  Beppa. 

Ant.  As  I  have  mine  for  you,  I  was  about  to  say ;  only 
I  do  not  recollect  that  I  ever  loved  you.  I  think  I  married 
her  to  keep  myself  from  starving  :  but  I  forget  why  ex- 
actly, 'tis  so  long  ago.     What  a  fool  is  a  man  who  marries 

— but  a  double  fool  is  he  who,  like  me,  am  doubly 1 

can't  bear  to  mention  it.  \^Exit  Antonio. 

Scene  II, 

Donna  Serafina^s  Chamber. — Donna  Serafina  discovered. 

Ser.  They  tell  me  I  am  fair :  yet  what  avails 
This  gift  of  nature  ? 

Could  those  who  envy  me  but  see  my  heart — 
My  bleeding,  lacerated,  breaking  heart  ! 
How  would  their  bitter  nature  change  to  pity ! 
I  did  require  but  him  in  this  wide  world ; 
My  beauty  valued,  but  to  gain  his  love  ! 
My  wealth  rejoiced  in,  but  to  share  with  him ! 
He  was  my  all  !  and  every  other  'vantage 
Was  but  of  value  as  subservient  to  him. 
As  is  the  gold  of  costly  workmanship 
Round  the  fair  gem  imbedded  in  the  centre. 
Oh !   Caspar,  were  I  sure  I  could  o'ertake 
Thy  spirit,  soaring  up  in  its  young  flight, 
This  little  steel  should  free  my  anxious  soul, 
To  join  thine  in  the  high  empyrean. 
And,  fondly  link'd,  in  joy  ascend  to  Heaven. 
Why  waits  the  friar  ?     Some  idle  mummery, 
To  him  more  sacred  than  my  Caspar's  relic, 
From  his  dull  memory  hath  chased  his  promise. 
Why  waits  my  woman,  whom  I  have  despatch'd 
To  learn  the  history  of  my  Caspar's  death  ? 
Alas  !  alas  !  they  know  not  love. 

Enter  Beppa. 
Bep,  Madam,  I've  news  for  you ;  but  news  so  strange 


56  Olla  Podrida 

That  I  can  scarce  impart  it.     Dry  your  tears, 
Nor  more  lament  Don  Caspar, — for  he  lives  ! 

Ser.  He  lives  ?  say  that  again  !     You  said  he  lived — 
Did  you  not,  Beppa  ?     Then  may  Heav'n  reward  you 
For  those  blissful  words  ! — He  lives  ! — support  me — 

{Faints  in  Beppa^s  arms,) 

Bep,  I  should  have  first  inform'd  her  he  was  false. 
Now  will   the   shock  be   greater.— Dear   lady — (Serafina 
recovering  gradually), 

Ser.  {faintly).     Now  do  I  feel  like  some  poor  criminal, 
Who,  having  closed  his  eyes,  to  look  no  more 
Upon  the  world  he  is  about  to  leave, 
With  curdling  blood,  and  faint  and  fluttering  pulse, 
Waits  for  the  last  terrific  moment 
When  the  sharp  axe  shall  free  his  trembling  soul. 
So  wakes  he  at  the  distant  shouts  of  men. 
Rolling  the  waves  of  sound  until  they  dash 
Against  his  worn-out  sense  the  glad  reprieve. 
Don  Caspar  lives  !     Oh  Heav'n,  I  thank  thee  ! 

Bep,  At  the  cup's  brim  the  sweets  have  kiss'd  your  lips. 
But,  madam,  like  some  weak,  distempered  child. 
You've  yet  to  taste  the  nauseous  dreaded  draught 
Which  is  to  cure  you. 

Ser.  What  mean  you  ?     Cure  me  ! 

Bep,  'Tis  true  Don  Caspar  lives — as  true  he's  false. 

Ser,  False  !     Beppa — false  ? 

Bep,  Most  false  and  treacherous  ! 
He  loves  another. 

Ser,  {after  a  pause).  Did  I  hear  rightly  ? 
Impossible  !     It  was  but  three  days  gone. 
He  swore  such  oaths,  if  true,  as  Heav'n  would  register- 
Should  they  prove  false,  as  hell  might  chuckle  at. 

Bep,  And  yet  it  is  so,  I  am  most  assured. 

Ser,  If  it  be  true,  then  everything  is  false. 
It  cannot,  cannot  be.     Have  I  not  lavish'd 
All  I  could  bestow,  myself  and  mine. 
Rejected  all,  to  live  within  his  arms. 
To  breathe  one  breath  with  him,  and  dwell  in  ecstasy 


The  Monk  of  Seville  57 

Upon  his  words.     Oh  no  !  he  is  not  false 
You  must  belie  him. 

Bep.  Nay,  I  would  I  did  : 
I  wonder  not  your  doting  heart  rejects 
Such  monstrous  treachery.     Yet  it  is  true, 
And  true  as  curs'd.     The  Donna  Isidora 
By  her  charms  has  won  him  ;  and  his  feign'd  death 
Was  but  a  stratagem  to  shake  you  off. 
As  you  last  night  asserted,  Perez  fell ; 
Don  Felix,  swearing  vengeance,  seeks  Don  Caspar. 

Ser.  {after  a  pause).     Who  is  this  Isidora  ? 

Bep.  A  lovely  creature  in  her  early  bloom. 
The  noble  blood  of  Guzman  in  her  veins, 
A  rival  worthy  of  your  beauty,  madam, 
And  therefore  one  most  dangerous. 

Ser.  Would  that  I  had  her  here.     My  heart  is  now 
So  full  of  anger,  malice,  and  fierce  hate. 
With  all  those  direful  and  envenom'd  passions 
By  which  the  breasts  of  demons  are  infected  ; 
If  I  but  even  look'd  upon  her  face, 
My  scorching  breath  would  wither  up  her  charms 
Like  adder's  poison.     Would  I  had  her  here ! 

Bep.  Yet  blame  her  not.     She^s  good  and  beautiful : 
Report  doth  much  commend  her  early  worth 
And  ever  active  charity. 

Ser.  Were  she  not  so,  I  yet  might  have  retain'd 
My  truant  love.     Each  virtue  that  she  hath 
With  me's  a  vice — each  charm,  deformity. 
They  are  my  foes,  array 'd  against  my  power, 
And  I  must  hate  them,  as  they've  vanquish'd  me. 

Bep.  But  my  hate  should  fall  on  Caspar,  lady. 

Ser.  That's  not  so  easy ;  the  strong  tide  of  love. 
Though  check'd,  still  flows  against  the  adverse  hate. 
In  their  opposing  strife,  my  troubled  breast 
Heaves  as  the  elements  in  wild  commotion. 

Bep.  It  must  not  last.     I've  much  to  tell  you  yet 
Of  this  base  man.     When  you  have  heard  it  all, 
A  rapid  flood  of  rage  shall  sweep  its  course. 


58  Gila  Podrida 

Lash'd  by  the  storm  raised  in  your  much-wrongM  soul, 
O'erwhelming  all  remorse,  to  Caspar's  ruin. 

5^r.  Direct    me,    Heav'n !       Come     to    my    chamber, 
Beppa, 
T  must  unrobe  me.     When  my  swollen  heart 
Can  throb  more  freely,  I  will  hear  your  tale. 
Come  on,  good  Beppa.  [Exeunt, 

Scene  III, 

Street  in   Seville. 

Enter  Antonio, 

Ant.  This  is  a  strange  world !  What  a  simpleton  is 
this  Don  Felix  !  First  he  buys  my  secret  at  a  heavy 
price,  and  then,  after  two  minutes'  deliberation,  declares 
that  he  will  make  no  use  of  it,  but  that  I  must  deliver 
the  message  that  he  gave  me.  I've  no  objection.  I  like 
to  see  my  betters  dismiss  each  other  to  the  next  world  ; — 
the  more  room  for  those  who  remain  behind,  and  poor 
rogues  like  me  are  not  so  much  jostled.  This  world  is 
certainly  much  too  full  for  comfort.  Ah  !  here  comes 
one  that  stands  a  chance  of  going  out  of  it. 

Enter  Don   Gaspar. 

Gasp.  Antonio,  I  must  for  a  time  remain  concealed. 
Don  Perez  is  no  more,  and  in  this  friar's  gown,  which 
I  put  on  to  elude  the  bravos,  I  have  convinced  the  Donna 
Serafina  of  my  death.  Thus  do  I  rid  myself  of  her  un- 
welcome love.  Remember,  should  you  meet  your  wife, 
I  don't  know  which  of  them,  you  will  keep  my  secret. 
You  will  remain  here  in  charge  till  I  return. 

Ant.  Most  certainly,  sir.  But  I  had  almost  forgotten  ; 
T  have  a  message  which  may  interfere  with  your  departure. 

Gasp.  From  whom  ? 

A?it.  Don  Felix,  sir.  The  friend  of  him  you  slew  last 
night. 


The  Monk  of  Seville  ^9 

Gasp.  Well,  what  is  this  message  ? 

Ant.  One,  sir,  that  will  demand  a  life — or  yours  or  his. 
It  is  so  coarsely  worded  that  I  dare  not  give  it.  It  will  too 
much  provoke  you. 

Gasp.  Give  it  me  straight,  and  let  me  have  it  word  for 
word. 

Ant.  He  told  me  first,  sir,  that  you  were — a  villain. 

Gasp,  {catching  Antonio  by  the  throat^.     How,  sirrah  ? 

Ant.  It  was  not  I  who  said  so — 'twas  Don  Felix. 

Gasp.  True.     I  was  hasty.     Now  proceed. 

Ant.  A  villain — of  no  parentage. 

Gasp.  What  ?  scoundrel ! 

Ant.  I  have  said  too  much,  sir. — You'll  excuse  the  rest. 

Gasp,  {much  irritated^.  No,  no,  no — go  on  ;  leave  out 
a  word  and  I  will  murder  you. 

A7it.  {aside).  Then  I  stand  a  bad  chance  either  way, 
not  so  amusing  as  I  thought.  {Aloud.)  He  did  say  some- 
thing else,  but  'twas  of  no  moment — 

Gasp,  {putting  his  hand  to  his  siuord).  Your  message,  to 
the  letter. 

Ant.  A  vile  impostor. 

Gasp,  {striking  him).     How  ? 

Ant.  Oh,  mercy,  sir !  you  take  me  for  Don  Felix. 

Gasp.  I  am  wrong.  {Throius  his  purse  to  Antonio.)  You 
said  a  villain — of  no  parentage — a  vile  impostor — ha  !  was 
there  any  more  ? 

Ant.  Yes,  sir  ;  and  which  I  think  I  may  deliver  without 
farther  danger  to  myself.  He  added,  "  If  there's  manhood 
in  him,  he  will  appoint  a  time  and  place,  when  and  where 
I  may  meet  him." 

Gasp.  I  ask  no  better.  Tell  him,  this  evening,  at  the 
copse  of  trees  where  Perez  fell,  he  may  expect  me.  Take 
my  answer  straight. 

Ant.  Shall  I  go  now  ? 

Gasp.  Yes ;  fly  to  his  house.  Tell  him  from  me — no, 
no — tell  him  no  more  than  I  have  said  already,  I'll  wait 
for  your  return.     Haste,  haste.  [Exit  Antonio. 

A  villain  of  no  parentage  ! — Impostor  ! 


6o  Olla  Podrida 

A  vile  impostor ! — He  but  states  the  truth, 

Yet  will  I  crush  him,  that  he  hath  stumbled 

On  that  truth.     Yes  !  of  no  parentage  ! — Why — 

Why  is  this  constant  pining  of  the  heart. 

As  if  it  felt  itself  defrauded  still 

Of  rights  inherent  ?  If  I'm  basely  born 

Why  do  I  spurn  the  common  herd  of  men  ? 

The  eaglet  that  regains  its  liberty, 

Soars  to  the  sun  at  once — it  is  its  nature  : 

While  meaner  birds  would  hop  from  spray  to  spray. 

Oh !  would  I  had  ne'er  been  born. — 

To-morrow  I  intend  to  leave  for  ever 

Her  whom  I  love — the  sacred  walls  I  hate. 

In  some  far  distant  land  to  die  unheeded. 

My  Isidora  has  desired  my  presence. 

And  strange,  admits  me  in  the  open  day. 

Within  an  hour  of  this  she  will  receive  me. 

Then  must  I  falter  out  my  last  adieu. 

This  evening  also  I  must  meet  Don  Felix.— 

Re-enter  Antonio. 

So  soon  return'd  !     Hast  thou  then  seen  him  ? 

Ant,  I  have,  sir ;  I  met  him  as  I  gained  the  door,  and 
your  message  was  duly  delivered.  He  answered,  that  he 
would  not  fail,  and  that  he  trusted  his  sword  would  not 
fail  either. 

Gasp.  Should  his  sword  fail,  I  must  not  return  for  many 
days ;  should  it  not  failj  I  return  no  more. 
But  having  balanced  thus  my  brief  account 
Of  love  and  hate.  Til  quit  fair  Spain  for  ever.  [Exit. 

Ant.  (taking  out  a  purse).  This  purse  is  a  heavy  one,  but 
not  so  heavy  as  the  one  I  received  from  Don  Felix.  I 
hardly  dared  deliver  the  message,  but  there's  seldom  profit 
without  danger.  I  will  say  this  for  my  master,  that  he 
knows  the  salve  for  every  wound.  Let  me  see — one  purse 
for  my  intelligence,  or  rather  for  keeping  my  master's  secret, 
and  another  from  Don  Felix  for  betraying  it — and  a  third 


The  Monk  of  Seville  6i 

for   a   blow.     Ah !    here   comes    Beppa.     {Puts   up  purse 
hastily.) 

Enter  Beppa, 

Bep,  What's  that  you've  put  into  your  pocket  ? 

Ant,  Only  an  empty  purse. 

Bep.  It  appeared  to  me  well  filled. 

Ant.  Appearances  are  very  deceitful.  How  is  your 
mistress  ? 

Bep.  Alas  !  she  has  watched  all  night — now  the  tears 
pouring  down  her  cheeks,  whilst  heavy  sobs  hindered  all 
utterance,  and  then  would  she  turn  to  rage,  and  pace  her 
chamber  with  frantic  gestures.  Oh  !  what  a  wretch  is 
this  Don  Caspar  ! 

Ant.  He  fights  this  evening. 

Bep.  With  whom  ? 

Ant.  Don  Felix — a  better  match  for  him  than  Perez. 

Bep.  They  say  the  former's  skilled  in  fence.  Heaven 
grant  his  sword  may  prove  the  master !  Where  do  they 
meet  ? 

Ant.  Nay,  that's  a  secret. 

Bep.  Tell  me,  Antonio,  Should  Don  Felix  not  prevail, 
a  woman's  vengeance  yet  may  reach  Don  Caspar.  Antonio, 
do  tell  me  where  they  meet. 

Ant.  It  is  a  secret. 

Bep.  But  I  must  know.  There  is  nothing  I  would  not 
give  to  win  this  secret  from  you.  Antonio,  you  must 
tell  me. 

Ant.  That  I  cannot,  I  made  a  promise.  {Puts  his  hand 
to  his  heart  ^ 

Bep.  (scornfully).  You  made  a  promise.  I  know  your 
promises  too  well.     What  will  you  sell  this  secret  for  ? 

Ant.  My  purse  of  ten  moidores  ! 

Bep.  Then  you  shall  have  it.    But  will  you  tell  it  truly  ? 

Ant.  Honour  !  when  I  have  the  money. 

Bep.  {Takes  out  purse  and  throws  it  at  him.)  Then,  there 
it  is.  I  believe  that  you  will  keep  a  roguish  contract, 
although  no  other. 


62  Olla  Podrida 

^nt.  You're  right.  They  meet  at  sunset  under  the 
copse  of  trees  where  Perez  fell. 

Bep,  The  copse  of  trees  where  Perez  fell !  Does  he 
not  fear  his  ghost  ?  No,  he  fears  nothing.  Breaking  the 
hearts  of  women,  and  piercing  those  of  men,  is  all  the 
same  to  this  fell  Caspar.  Well,  I  have  bought  your 
secret,  and  will  make  good  use  of  it. 

^nt.  Had  you  not  known  that  it  was  a  marketable 
commodity,  you  never  had  purchased  it.  You'll  turn  a 
penny,  never  fear.     I  must  unto  my  master's  lodgings. 

[Exit. 

Bep.  Yes,  to  follow  thy  old  trade  of  pilfering.  I  must 
unto  my  lady,  and  bear  her  this  intelligence.  Thus  will 
I  rouse  the  woman  in  her,  and  urge  her  to  revenge. 

[Exit. 

Scene  IV. 

A  Room  in  the  Guzman  Palace. 

Enter  Ni^ia,  ushering  in  Don  Gaspar, 

Stay  here,  senor.     You'll  not  be  long  alone. 

\Exit  NincL 
Gasp.  Thus  am  I  hurried,  by  resistless  love. 
To  follow  that  I  never  can  obtain. 
I  love  thee,  Isidora,  dote  upon  thee. 
There's  not  a  boiling  drop  within  these  veins 
I'd  not  pour  out,  could  it  but  make  thee  happy. 
And  yet  I  'gainst  my  better  reason  plunge. 
Dragging  thee  with  me  deep  into  perdition. 
A  monk,  and  marry  !     'Tis  impossible  ! 
Each  time  I  quit  her,  then  do  I  resolve 
Never  to  see  her  more ;  yet  one  hour's  absence 
Kills  my  resolution,  and  each  moment 
Seems  an  eternity,  till  in  her  presence 
Vows  I  repeat,  that  vows  alone  make  false. 
'Tis  not  in  human  nature  to  withstand 
Against  such  strong  temptation, — 
To  fold  her  in  my  arms — inhale  her  breath, 


The  Monk  of  Seville  6;^ 

Kiss  tears  away,  neither  of  grief  nor  joy, 

But  from  both  fountains  equally  overflowing — 

Oh  !  'tis  a  bliss  indeed,  to  gain  which 

Angels  might  leave  their  bright  cerulean  home, 

And  barter  their  eternal  heaven  of  joy. 

Enter  Donna  Inez.  Gaspar  advances  quickly  to  her,  thinking  it 
is  Isidora,  hut  finding  his  mistake  stops  abruptly,  and  boivs 
to  Donna  Inez. 

Inez.  Don  Gaspar — for  'tis  so  I  hear  you're  styled — 
Hither  you  came  in  ardent  expectation 
Of  meeting  one  more  suited  to  your  age, 
My  beauteous  niece,  the  Donna  Isidora. 
Now  would  I  have  some  conference  with  one 
Who  by  insidious  means  hath  gain'd  her  heart. 
Yet  shrouds  himself  in  mystery  :  she  has  placed 
Her  fortunes  in  my  hands — she  resigns  her  all, 
To  me  confiding  to  unlock  your  secret. 
When  once  you're  manifest  and  fully  known, 
A  task  which  must  precede,  senor,  it  will  decide 
Whether  I  join  your  hands  and  bless  your  union, 
Or  curse  the  fatal  day  she  first  beheld  you  ! 

Gasp.  Madam,  I  thank  you  much,  I'll  speak  directly. 
But  I'm  so  overcome  with  wretchedness. 
Your  kindness  must  bear  with  me. 
You  ask  me  who  I  am — a  question  fair, 
As  fairly  answer'd  now — I  cannot  tell. 

Inez.  Is  it  you  know  not,  or  you  will  not  tell  ? 

Gasp.  I  do  not  know — and  therefore  cannot  tell — 
Though  from  this  hour  I  date  my  misery, 
I  am  resign'd.     You  may  dismiss  me 
With  stern  remonstrance  at  my  daring  love- 
Yet  it  is  better.     I  am  of  those  forsaken — 
Who  have  no  parents — owing  to  the  state 
A  nurture  most  unkind — a  foundling  child. 

Inez.  A    foundling    child  .^       (Aside.)    His    voice  —  his 
presence — 
And  those  words  make  my  heart  leap  in  agony. 


64  OUa  Podrida 

Gasp.  Yes,  and  must  live  to  curse  the  hearts  of  those 
Unnatural  parents,  who  could  thus  renounce  me. 
Love  conquer'd  shame,  and  brought  me  into  being, 
But  in  her  turn  shame  triumphed  over  love. 
And  I  was  left  to  destiny. — 
The  bloody  tigress  parts  not  with  her  young : — 
Her  cruel  nature,  never  known  to  pity, 
Is  by  maternal  feeling  changed  to  tenderness. 
The  eyes  which  fiercely  gleam  on  all  creation. 
Beam  softly,  as  she  views  her  snarling  cubs. 
But  cruel  man,  unruly  passion  sated, 
Leaves  to  neglect  the  offspring  of  his  guilt. 
I  have  no  more  to  say.     Dismiss  me  now, 
And  when,  henceforth,  you  rail  at  my  presumption. 
Consider  the  perfection  that  has  caused  it. 
I  oft  have  made  the  healthy  resolution 
To  quit  for  ever  her  whom  I  adore. 
Take  my  farewell  to  her — your  lovely  niece, 
Although  I'm  friendless,  she  will  pity  me. 

Inez,  (aside).  How  strange  it  is 
I  feel  not  anger'd  !     Strange  indeed,  there  is  a  pulse 
Which  makes  me  lean  to  his  presumptuous  love. 

[Caspar  is  going. 
(Aloud.)  Yet  stay  awhile,  for  I  would  know  your  age  ? 

Gasp.  'Twas  at  nine  years  I  left  the  hospital. 
And  now  have  been  for  ten  a  wanderer. 

Inez,  (aside).  The  age  exact.     O  Heav'n !  let  not  these 
hopes 
For  ever  springing,  be  for  ever  wither'd ! 
(Aloud.)  Youth,  have  you  any  mark,  should  you  be  sought, 
Might  lend  a  clue  to  your  discovery  ? 

Gasp.  I  have  ;  they  who  deserted  me,  if  ever 
Their  intention  to  reclaim  my  person. 
May  safely  challenge  me  among  ten  thousand. 
(Baring  his  wrist.)  'Tis  here — a  ruby  band  upon  my  wrist. 
[Inez  goes  towards  him,  catches  his  hand,  and  gazes 
on  the  wrist  intently  without  speaking. 
What  can  this  mean  ?  oh,  speak,  dear  lady,  speak ! 


The  Monk  of  Seville  65 

Inez,  (throwing   herself  into   his   arms^.      My  child,   my 
child ! 

Gasp.  I,  I  your  child  !  almighty  Heaven,  I  thank  thee  ! 
My  heart  is  bursting  in  its  wild  emotion. 
Till  all  be  understood.     Oh,  speak  again  ! 

Itie%.  Thou  art  my  son — he  whom  I've  mourn'd  so  long, 
So  long  have  sought.     Features  thou  hast,  my  boy. 
Which  in  the  memory  of  all  save  her. 
Who  fondly  loved,  long,  long  have  pass'd  away. 

Gasp.  Who  was  my  father  ? 

Inez.  One  of  most  ancient  name,  Don  Felipo. 

Gasp.  Then  I  am  noble  ? 

Inez.  And  by  each  descent. 

Gasp.  Pardon  me,  lady,  if  I  seem  more  eager 
To  know  this  fact,  than  render  unto  you 
My  love  and  duty. — From  the  world's  scorn 
I've  sufFer'd  much ;  and  my  unbending  pride 
Would  rather  that  my  birth  remain'd  in  doubt. 
Than  find  a  parentage  which  was  obscure. 
Now  all  is  perfect,  and  to  you  I  tender 
{Kneeling)  My  truth  and  love,  still  in  their  infancy, 
And  therefore  may  they  seem  to  you  but  feeble. 
(Rises.)  Yet  blame  me  not :  this  sudden  change  of  state 
Hath  left  me  so  bewilder'd  I  scarce  know 
Myself,  or  what  I  feel  -,  like  to  the  eyes 
Of  one  long  plunged  in  gloom,  on  whom  the  sun, 
At  length  admitted,  pours  at  once  a  flood 
Of  glorious  light — so  are  my  senses  dazzled. 

Inez.  And  I  am  faint  with  gratitude  and  love. 
Come  in  with  me.     Then  shall  you  learn 
The  cruel  cause  that  cast  you  out  a  foundling. 
And  I,  the  bounteous,  blessed  providence. 
That  led  you  to  my  arms.  [Exeunt. 


66  Olla  Podricla 


j4ct  F.      Scene  L 
A  chamber  in  the  Guzman  Palace, 
Enter  Donna  Inez,  meeting  Superior, 

Sup,  Save  thee,  good  lady !  I  have  stolen  an  hour 
From  holy  prayer,  for  which  may  I  be  pardon'd, 
To  weigh  the  merits  of  a  mother's  virtue 
Against  the  errors  of  an  impious  son  ; 
To  put  in  counterpoise  the  deep  disgrace, 
The  insult  offer'd  to  our  brotherhood, 
With  the  atonement  you  would  make  to  Heav'n. 

Inez.  And  you  are  merciful  ! 

Sup.  Lady,  there  is  nought 

Which  Heav'n  detests  so  much  as  sacrilege  ; 
'Tis  the  most  damn'd  of  all  the  damning  sins. 
The  fire  of  hell  can  purge  away  all  crimes, 
Howe'er  atrocious,  save  this  deed  of  death, 
To  life  eternal,  if  not  here  atoned  for 
By  a  surrender  of  all  earthly  goods. 

Inez.  All,  father  ! 

Sup.  All! 

htez.  Father,  this  cannot  be. 

Surely  there  is 
In  our  extensive  wealth  enough  for  both — 
To  satisfy  the  holy  church,  yet  leave 
Withal  to  grace  his  rank  and  dignity. 

Sup.  He  that  hath  mock'd  high  Heav'n  with  sacrilege 
Should  live  for  nought  except  to  make  his  peace. 
Your  son  must  straight  renew  his  broken  vows. 
With  tears  and  penance  must  wash  out  his  sin — 
His  life,  however  long,  too  short  to  plead 
For  mercy  and  forgiveness,  and  his  wealth, 
However  great,  too  small  to  make  atonement. 

Inez.  Father,  this  cannot  be. 

Sup.  It  shall  be  so. 

Inez,  Then  I'll  appeal  elsewhere.     I'll  to  the  king, 


The  Monk  of  Seville  67 

And  tell  him  this  sad  story.     The  Guzmans 
Have  too  well  served  him,  not  to  gain  his  help 
In  this  their  need.     If  we  must  pay  a  price, 
The  bargain  shall  be  made  with  Rome  herself. 
Who  will  be  less  exacting. 

Sup.  {aside),     I  must  not  grasp  too  much,  or  I  lose  all. 
{Aloud)  Lady,  I  know  your  thoughts,  and  do  not  bhnie  you. 
You  are  divided,  as  frail  mortals  are 
In  this  imperfect  state,  'twixt  heaven  and  earth, 
Your  holy  wishes  check'd  by  love  maternal ; 
Now  would  I  know  the  course  that  you  would  steer 
Between  the  two.     We  can  arrange  this  point. 
The  church  is  generous,  and  she  oft  resigns 
That  she  might  claim  in  justice.     Tell  me,  lady. 
What  do  you  proffer  ? 

Inez,  There  is  a  fair  domain  of  great  extent 
Water'd  by  the  Guadalquiver's  wave, 
Whose  blushing  harvests  each  returning  autumn 
Yield  the  best  vintage  in  our  favour'd  land. 
Six  hamlets  tenanted  by  peaceful  swains, 
And  dark-eyed  maidens,  portion'd  to  the  soil, 
Foster  its  increase.     The  fairest  part  of  Spain 
Which  Heav'n  hath  made,  I  render  back  to  Heav'n. 

Sup,  I  know  the  land,  and  will  accept  the  gift : — 
But  to  it  must  be  added  sums  of  gold 
To  pay  for  holy  rites  to  be  performed 
For  years,  to  purify  our  monastery 
Which  has  been  desecrated. 

Inez,  That  will  I  give,  and  freely.     Now,  good  father. 
Remember,  in  exchange  for  these  you  promise 
To  pardon  all,  and  to  obtain  from  Rome 
A  dispensation  to  my  truant  child. 

Sup,  I  do ! 

Inez,  Father,  I'll  send  him  to  you.     You'll 
Rebuke  him,  but  not  harshly,  for  his  soul 
Is  with  his  new  found  prospects  all  on  fire. 

[Exit  Inez, 

Sup,  Now  wiU  our  convent  be  the  best  endow'd 


6S  Olla  Podrida 

Of  any  in  the  land.     This  wild  young  hypocrite, 
Who  fears  nor  Heaven  nor  man,  hath  well  assisted 
My  pious  longing.     More  by  the  sins  of  men 
Than  their  free  gifts,  our  holy  church  doth  prosper. 

[^Enfer  Atiselmo  in  cavalier  s  dress* 

What  do  I  see  ?  One,  that's  in  sanctity. 
Who  vow'd  his  service  and  his  life  to  Heav'n, 
In  this  attire.     Heaven  is  most  patient ! 

Ans,  It  is,  good  father,  or  this  world  of  guilt 
Had  long  been  withered  with  the  threaten'd  fire. 
My  sins  are  monstrous,  yet  I  am  but  one 
Of  many  millions,  erring  as  myself. 
'Tis  not  for  us  to  judge.     He,  who  reads  all 
Our  hearts,  and  knows  how  we've  been  tempted. 
Alone  can  poise  the  even  scale  of  justice. 
If  I'm  to  blame,  good  father,  are  not  you  .^ 

Sup.  How? 

Ans.  I  had  it  from  my  mother,  she  reveal'd 
To  you  her  history,  and  did  make  known 
The  mark  by  which  I  might  be  recognised — 
That  mark,  so  oft  the  theme  of  idle  wonder 
In  the  convent.     Before  I  took  my  vows 
You  therefore  must  have  known  my  station. 
The  rank  I  held  by  birthright,  and  the  name 
Which  I  inherited.     Why  did  you  press  me  then 
To  take  those  vows  ?  It  was  a  rank  injustice. 

Sup.  (aside).     He  argues    boldly.      {Aloud)    *Twere  as 
well  to  say. 
It  were  unjust  to  help  you  unto  Heav'n — 
I  put  you  in  the  right  path. 

Ans.  One  too  slippery.     Father,  I've  stumbled. 

Sup.  You   have.      But    that   your    fond   and   virtuous 
mother 
Stretch'd  forth  her  hand  to  save  you,  it  had  been 
To  your  perdition. 

Ans.  I  am  so  full  of  gratitude  to  Heaven, 
I  cannot  cavil  at  the  deeds  of  men. 


The  Monk  of  Seville  6§ 

Yet  are  we  blind  alike.     You  did  intend 
To  serve  me,  and  I  thank  you. 

Sup.  I'll  serve  you  yet,  my  son.     This  very  night 
A  message  shall  be  forwarded  to  Rome. 
Before  a  month  is  past  you'll  be  absolved. 
Till  then  return  unto  the  monastery. 
Resume  your  cowl,  and  bear  yourself  correctly. 
A  month  will  soon  be  o'er. 

Ans,  To  one  who  is  imprison'd,  'tis  an  age ; 
Yet  is  your  counsel  wise,  and  I  obey  you 
With  all  humility. 

Sup.  'Tis  well,  my  son. 
Your  follies  are  unknown  but  to  ourselves. 
I  shall  expect  you  ere  the  night  be  past. 

l^Exit  Superior. 

Ans.  "  Stretch'd  forth  her  hand  to  save  me  !  "  Well  I  trow, 
Had  it  been  stretch'd  forth  empty  I  had  perish'd. 
I've  bought  my  freedom  at  no  trifling  price. 
Most  potent  gold !  all  that  the  earth  can  offer, 
Are  at  thy  bidding.     Nay,  more  powerful  still- 
Since  it  appears  that  holy  men  for  thee 
Will  barter  Heav'n.     Still  his  advice  is  good. 
Yet  must  I  first  behold  my  Isidora : 
Whose  startled  innocence,  like  to  a  rose 
When  charged  with  dew  and  rudely  shaken, 
Relieves  itself  in  sweet  and  sudden  showers 
From  its  oppressive  load.     My  heavy  guilt 
Hath  shock'd  her  purity — now,  she  rejects 
The  love  of  one  who  has  been  false  to  Heav'n. 
She  refused  to  see  me ;  but  I  have  gain'd. 
By  intercession  of  my  doting  mother. 
One  meeting,  to  decide  if  my  estate 
Shall  be  more  wretched  than  it  was  before. 
If  she,  unheard,  condemns  me,  mine  will  be 
A  wild  career  most  perilous  to  the  soul, — 
That  of  a  lion's  whelp,  breaking  his  chain 
And  prowling  through  the  world  in  search  of  prey. 

\ExiU 


7©  011a  Podrida 

Scene  11. 

Istdoras  Room  in  the  Gu-zman  Palace. 

Isidora  alone  on  her  knees  at  a  small  oratory.     Rises. 

Lid.  Yes,  I  would  pray,  but  the  o'erwhelming  thought 
Of  vows  made  light — nay,  mock'd  by  him,  the  guide, 
Th'  elected  star  of  my  too  trusting  soul, 
Stops  in  my  breast  the  heavenly  aspiration. 
And  nought  I  utter  but  th'  unconscious  wail 
Of  broken-hearted  love.     Love — and  for  whom  ! — 
How  have  I  waken'd  from  a  dream  of  bliss 
To  utter  misery.     Fond,  foolish  maid. 
Thus  to  embark  my  heart,  my  happiness. 
So  inconsiderate — now  the  barque  sinks. 
And,  with  its  freight,  is  left  to  widely  toss 
In  seas  of  doubt,  of  horror,  and  despair. 
Oh  !  Isidora,  is  thy  virgin  heart 
Thus  mated  to  a  wild  apostate  monk  ? 
The  midnight  reveller,  and  morning  priest. 
At  e'en  the  gay  guitar,  at  noon  the  cowl ; 
The  holy  mummer,  tonsure  and  the  missal, 
The  world,  our  blessed  Church,  and  Heav'n  defied. 
To  love  this  man,  I  surely  have  become 
That  which  a  Guzman  ought  to  scorn  to  be 
Is  he  not,  too,  a  Guzman,  and  my  cousin  ? 
Yet  must  he  be  renounced.     Here  let  me  kneel, 
Nor  rise  till  I  be  freed  of  love  and  him. 

(^Isidora  kneels  a  short  time  in  silence,  and  proceeds^ 

Anselmo — ^Virgin  holy,  will  no  name 
But  his  rise  from  my  wretched  heart  in  pray'r  ? 
Then  let  me  bind  myself  by  sacred  vows  : 
Record  it,  Heav'n ! — Thus  do  I  renounce 

Enter  Anselmo. 

Ans»  All  sorrow,  my  beloved  ;  for  grief  no  more 

Shall  worm  its  canker  in  our  budding  bliss. 


The  Monk  of  Seville  71 

{Anselmo  approaches  her,  she  rises  abruptly.) 

Isid.  Nay,  touch  me  not — approach  me  not,  Anselmo. 

Ans.  {looking  earnestly  at  her),  Isidora  ! 

Isid,  Holy  Virgin,  to  thee  I  trust  for  strength 
In  this  my  hour  of  peril.     Anselmo, 
That  look  has  reft  a  heart  too  fondly  thine — 
But  only  thine,  henceforth,  in  holy  love. 

Ans,  And  is  not  all  love  holy  ?  that  the  holiest. 
Which  gushes  from  the  springs  of  thy  pure  heart ; 
So  pure,  that,  laved  by  it,  my  spotted  breast 
Shall  shortly  be  as  snow. 

Isid.  Hear  me,  Anselmo  : 

It  is  ordain'd  we  meet  no  more. 

Ans,  And  canst  thou  say  those  words  }     (Kneels,)  See, 
on  the  earth 
I  grovelling  kneel — my  straining  eyes  seek  thine : 
Turn,  turn  to  me ;  say  not  those  words  again ; 
Thou  canst  not,  dearest. 

Isid.  (her  eyes  still  averted).     We  must  meet  no  more. 

Ans.  V\\  not  believe  thy  voice :  look  on  me  now 
One  steady,  one  unflinching  glance,  and  then 
If  thou'lt  repeat  those  words — I  must  believe. 
(Pause.)  Averted  still  ! — Oh,  Isidora,  who, 
Who  pour'd  such  cruel  thoughts  into  thy  breast .? 
Was  it  a  female  fiend,  or  some  vile  priest, 
Some  meddling,  sin-absolving,  canting  priest  ? — 
It  was — that  start  declares  it. — Curse  him,  curse  him. 

(Rises.) 

Isid.  (coming  fornvard  luith  dignity  and  fronting  Anselmo?) 
Anselmo,  curse  him  not.     Thou  art  that  priest. 
[Anselmo  covers  his  face  with  his  hand."] 

My  better  angel  hath  my  mind  illumed — 

Hath  shown  me  thy  past  life.     Thy  heavy  sins, 

In  black  array,  hath  weigh'd  before  mine  eyes ; 

That  silent  voice,  which  every  bosom  sways. 

Hath  spoken  deeply — bidden  me  abjure 

Him  who  mock'd  all.     That  gentle  voice  hath  said, 


72  Olla  Podrida 

That  of  us  twain,  immortal  bliss  alone 
Can  crown  the  union ;  which  to  be  obtain'd. 
Must  on  this  earth  be  won  by  penance  strict, 
Unceasing  prayer,  and  thy  resumed  vows. 
Is  it  not  well,  Anselmo 

Ans,  Isidora, 

Are  racking  tortures  well  ?  is  liquid  fire 
Rushing  and  bubbling  through  the  burning  veins, 
Until  they  shrivel,  well  ?     And  is  it  well 
To  find  the  angel,  who  hath  borne  your  soul 
Half  o'er  the  flaming  abyss  of  the  damn'd. 
Shake  it  away,  and  feel  it  whirling  sink 
To  everlasting  torments  ? — In  bitter  truth, 
These  are  but  nought  compared  to  the  fell  pangs 
Thy  words  have  caused,  which  rack  my  tortured  breast. 

Isid,  Anselmo,  hear  me  ! 

Ans,  Hear  me  now  in  turn, 

By  the  soul  I've  perill'd,  we  must  not  part ! 
Cast  me  but  off,  and  Heav'n  may  do  so  too  : 
Here  stand  I,  Isidora,  with  one  foot 
Upon  Heaven's  threshold,  thou  within  the  gates : 
Oh  !  call  me  to  thee.     I  am  Heaven's  and  thine  : 
But,  loose  thy  hand,  and  I  will  seek  that  hell 
Which  lies  beneath.     The  deed  be  on  thy  head. 

Isid,  Oh  !  horrible,  Anselmo — horrible  ! 

Ans.  Question  me,  Isidora.     Where's  the  sin 
That,  in  thine  eyes,  demands  such  heavy  penance  ? 

Isid,  The  violated  vow 

Ans.  Was  made  long  ere  I 

Knew  its  power  or  meaning,  and  was  forced 
By  those  who  thrust  it  on  me  in  deceit ; 
For  well  they  knew  it  robb'd  me  of  my  birthright. 
'Twas  sin  to  make  that  vow ;  and  were  it  not 
God's  'gerent  here  on  earth  hath  power  more  ample 
To  unloose,  than  monks  to  bind — thou'rt  answer'd. 

Isid,  Answer'd,  but  not  content — if  false  to  vows 
More  sacred  far  5 — yet  surely  not  more  sacred, — 
For  what  should  be  more  sacred  than  the  vows 


The  Monk  of  Seville  73 

Which  link  the  happiness  of  two  in  one 
Till  death  dissolves  the  union  ? — If  false 
To  Heav'n,  Anselmo 

Ans,  Who  made  me  false,  then  ? 

Isid,  Touch  not  that  chord — treat  me  not  as  woman, 
Easy  to  flattery,  boastful  of  her  charms  : 
You  know  me  not,  Anselmo ;  but  till  late 
I  scarcely  knew  myself. 
Talk  not  to  me  of  Heaven's  vicegerent : 
Can  man  absolve  from  compact  made  with  God  ? 

Ans.  Isidora,  it  is  now  my  duty 
T'  assume  the  monitor,  and  point  out  to  thee 
How  e'en  the  purest  of  us,  in  our  frailty, 
May  haply  slide.     A  maiden  in  her  pride, 
But  scarce  in  womanhood,  dare  to  dispute 
The  tenets  of  our  faith,  strikes  at  the  head 
Of  our  religion  ;  and  what,  for  ages, 
Holy  men  have  reverenced  and  believed. 
Hath  been  by  her  denounced  as  not  her  creed. 

Isid.  Tis  true — 'tis  true.     The  sin  of  unbelief, 
'Gainst  which  I've  rail'd,  I  fall  into  myself, 
Swayed  by  my  foolish  pride.     (Turns  to  Anselmo*) 

But  still,  as  yet 
Thou'rt  bound,  Anselmo — e'en  this  discourse, 
Methinks,  is  sacrilege. 

Ans.  Nay,  Isidora, 

Does  not  the  father,  he  whose  spiritual  sway 
I  yet  acknowledge,  grant  me  this  sweet  bliss  ? 
And  is  the  tender  sanction  of  that  saint, 
Our  more  than  mother,  nothing  ?     As  monk, — 
And  now  I  scarce  am  one, — it  would  seem 
I  am  an  object  of  your  utter  hate. 

Isid.  Not  hate,  Anselmo — 'tis  a  bitter  word  j 
Say  rather  fear — of  what  belongs  to  Heav'n. 
Was  there  no  crime,  Anselmo,  when  thou  stol'st. 
Like  a  disguised  thief,  this  trusting  heart  ? 
What  sophistry  can'st  thou  put  forth  to  show 
Thou  should'st  retain  thy  base,  dishonest  theft  ? 


74  Olla-  Podrida 

Ans,  Not  words,  but  deeds,  my  Isidora, 
Shall  prove  me  worthy  of  the  stolen  treasure  : 
The  first  are  due  to  God.     This  very  night 
With  penance  strict,  I'll  cleanse  my  tainted  soul ; 
Deep  in  contrition,  on  my  knees  I'll  wait 
My  dispensation  from  the  sovereign  pontiff; 
Then 

Isid.  And  then — dear,  dear  Anselmo. 

Ans.  And  then 

Shall  sneering  cavalier  or  flaunting  dame 
Say,  when  a  Guzman  shall  a  Guzman  wed. 
The  monk  parades  it  boldly,  and  the  bride 
Hath  cull'd  the  cloister  for  her  wedded  lord  ? 
No,  no ;  they  never  shall,  my  Isidora. 
Then  will  I  clad  me  in  the  warrior's  steel : 
Thou  shalt  receive  me  from  the  crimson'd  field, 
A  laurel'd  hero,  or  shall  mourn  me  slain  ; 
I  will  not  steal  to  thee  from  cloister'd  sloth, 
But  at  thy  portal  light  from  battle  steed. 
Spain  hath  around  and  that  within,  shall  make 
The  monk — a  hero.     Dost  thou  not  think 
The  plumed  helm  will  better  fit  this  head, 
Than  the  dull  friar's  cowl  ?  My  Isidora, 
Now  for  a  space — a  brief  one,  fare  thee  well ! 
Once  more  I'll  meet  thee,  and  on  bended  knee, 
As  soldier  should,  I'll  claim  from  my  betroth'd 
Some  token  that  shall  cheer  me  in  the  fight. 
I  must  be  worthy  of  you. 

Isid,  Thou  art  so.  {Embrace.^ 

Anselmo,  fare  thee  well !  may  Heav'n  bless  thee  !       [Exit, 

Ans.  All  powerful  virtue,  unto  thy  shrine 
I  bow.     Sweet  maid,  whose  great  perfection 
Hath  as  a  glass  display'd  to  me  my  crimes  j 
Oh  may'st  thou  ever  keep  me  in  the  path 
Where  peace  and  happiness  attend  my  steps  ! 
Now  must  I  to  the  monast'ry  repair, 
There  to  remain  until  I'm  freed  ; — but  then, 
To-night  it  is  I  meet  the  brave  Don  Felix  : 


The  Monk  of  Seville  75 

I  had  forgotten  it.     Most  willingly 

Would  I  avoid  this  foolish  rash  dispute  ; 

And  yet  I  must  not.     When  I  was  friendless, 

Reckless  of  life, — a  life  not  worth  preserving, — 

I  could  have  pass'd  whole  days  in  mortal  strife.  '^Exit. 

Scene  HI, 
A  Part  of  Garden  of  Serafina^s  House. 

Enter  Antonio. 

Ant.  This  friar's  gown,  which  I  have  borrowed  from 
my  master,  has  proved  most  valuable.  I  never  could  have 
reached  this  spot,  if  I  had  not  been  thus  disguised.  {Opens 
his  goivn,  and  sho-zus  his  face  and  clothes  smeared  luith  hlood.^ 
Here's  blood  enough.  Noble,  for  all  I  know.  I  begged 
it  from  the  barber.  Thank  Heaven,  'tis  not  mine  own. 
Sancho  will  never  know  me.  I  see  them  coming  in  the 
distance.  (Takes  off"  the  goivHy  aiid puts  it  behind  the  trees,  atid 
then  lies  down.)     Now  for  self-murder.     Lopez  is  no  more. 

Enter  Sa?icho  and  Nina. 

San.  'Tis  here  that  we  fought,  and  hereabouts  should 
be  the  body. 

Nina,  {fearfully  pointing  to  the  body.)  What's  that  ? 
Sancho,  it  is — it  is  my  husband  !   {Bursts  into  tears.) 

San.  Why  do  you  grieve  ?  Did  you  not  wish  him 
dead  ? 

Nina.  Alas  !  we  often  wish  what  we  do  not  really  want, 
prompted  by  the  anger  of  the  moment.  What,  in  our 
selfish  views,  seems  nothing  at  the  time,  becomes  most 
horrible  in  the  reality.     Alas,  poor  Lopez  !  {Weeps.) 

San.  Why,  Nina,  did  he  not  basely  leave  you  ?  Forgot 
his  vow  to  love  and  cherish  you  ?  Holy  Saint  Petronila  ! 
why,  then,  do  you  love  and  cherish  him  ?  Come,  dry 
your  eyes,  Nina ;  he's  not  worth  a  tear.     {Kisses  her  hatid.) 

Nina.  From  no  one,  I  will  grant,  except  from  me.  But 
there's  a  feeling  in  the  heart  of  woman,  you  cannot  com- 
prehend.    Even  when  it  is  breaking  from  ill-treatment,  it 


^e  Olla  Podrida 

yearns  towards  her  husband.     I  must  go  away,  Sancho ; 
I  cannot  bear  to  see  him — nor  you  ;  for  you  did  slay  him. 

^an.  Where  are  you  going  ? 

Nina.  I'll  meet  you  in  the  further  walk. 

\E.x'it  Nina,  sobbing, 

San,  Here's  a  pretty  mess  !  Women  are  never  of  one 
mind  :  change,  and  change,  and  change  for  ever.  This 
rascal  deserted  her  at  Toledo,  took  all  her  money,  and 
her  very  clothes — and  yet  she  grieves  for  him.  I  should 
not  wonder  if  she  rejected  me  now,  believing  that  I  killed 
him.  {Going  up  to  Antonio,)  How  bloody  he  is !  Thou 
filthy  carcase  of  a  filthy  knave  !  I've  a  great  mind  to  have 
a  thrust  at  thee,  that  I  may  swear  my  sword  went  through 
thy  body.  Saint  Petronila  bless  the  idea  !  {Half  draiv- 
ing  his  sword,)  There's  some  one  coming ;  and  if  I  am 
found  here,  with  my  naked  sword,  near  this  bloody  corpse, 
I  shall  be  apprehended  for  his  murder.  [Etcit  hastily. 

{Antonio  looks  up  and  then  lies  doivn.) 

Enter  Beppa, 

Bep.  I  cannot  find  my  mistress.  She  came  with  me  into 
the  garden,  worked  up  to  desperation  against  Don  Caspar, 
and  earnest  for  his  death.  Alas  !  the  tide  is  turned,  and 
now,  in  some  sequestered  spot,  she  weeps  his  falsehood. 
I  must  go  seek  her,  and  steel  her  heart  by  praising  Isidora. 
What's  here  ?  the  body  of  a  man  {going  to  Antonio),  Why ! 
'tis  Antonio,  my  worthless  husband  \  alas !  and  called 
away  without  repentance,  full  of  misdeeds  and  roguery. 
Heaven  pardon  him  !  Whose  deed  was  this  ?  that  villain 
Garcias'  ? — if  so,  he  hath  but  gained  the  sin  ;  for  I  would 
sooner  hug  an  adder,  than  listen  to  his  wooing.  I  must 
seek  my  mistress  j  then  will  I  return  to  give  him  honest 
burial,  and  pay  for  masses  for  his  guilty  soul. 

[Exit, 

[Antonio  rises  slowly,  resumes  his  friar's  dress,  and 
comes  forward^ 

Ant,  That  cowardly  rascal,  Sancho,  had  nearly  brought 


The  Monk  of  Seville  77 

me  to  life  again,  instead  of  having  killed  me,  as  he  said 
he  had.  Pitiful  scoundrel,  to  thrust  at  a  dead  man  !  He'll 
never  kill  one  living.  Nina,  I  respect  thee  ;  yet  must  we 
part,  for  'tis  evident  thou  lov'st  another.  I'll  meet  them 
in  this  grove,  and  persuade  them  to  marry.  As  for  Beppa, 
if  I  am  missing,  'tis  clear  she'll  never  look  for  me. 

[Exit. 

Scene  IV, 
Amther  Part  of  the  Garden, 
Enter  Nina  and  Sancho, 

Nina,  Nay,  no  more,  Sancho.  To  me  there's  some- 
thing dreadful  in  such  a  hasty  fresh  espousal.  My 
husband's  body  yet  uninterred,  still  would  you  have  me 
enter  into  fresh  bonds. 

San.  He  was  no  husband  to  you,  Nina,  but  a  worthless 
wretch,  who  deceived  you.  Remember,  it  is  for  years 
that  I  have  loved  you.     Saint  Petronila  be  my  witness. 

Nina.  I  know  it,  Sancho,  and  wish  I  had  never  married 
Lopez.     Why  did  you  leave  me  ? 

San.  I  could  but  leave  you,  when  I  followed  my  master: 
but  remember,  when  we  parted,  I  offered  you  my  troth. 
You  have  been  unjust  to  me,  and  owe  some  reparation ; 
by  Saint  Petronila,  you  do ! 

Nina.  And  in  good  time  I'll  make  it,  Sancho. 

San.  The  present  is  good  time ;  now  we  are  together, 
and  my  master  is  no  more.  Come,  Nina,  keep  your 
promise,  and  the  Saint  will  reward  you. 

Nina.  Nay,  Sancho,  do  not  thus  persuade  me.  Were 
I  to  yield  to  your  wish,  you  would  hate  me  after  we 
were  married. 

San.  Never ;  by  this  kiss  (kisses  ker),  I  swear.  I  have 
you  now,  and  will  not  part  with  you. 

[Nina  throws  herself  into  his  arms. 


yS  Olla  Podrida 

Rnter  Antonio  in  friar's  goivn  and  hood. 

Ant.  {in  a  feigned  voice).      Good  hugging   people,   are 
you  man  and  wife. 

San.  We  are  not  yet,  but  soon  we  hope  to  be. 

Ant.     The  sooner  it  were  better,  for  this  dalliance 
In  the  ev'ning,  in  a  sequester'd  grove. 
Is  most  unseemly,  if  not  dangerous. 
Woman,  lovest  thou  this  man  ? — 

Nina.  I  do,  most  holy  father. 

Ant.  And  I  must  tell  thee,  maiden,  it  were  better 
That  you  delay  no  longer.     I  have  witness'd 
Your  stolen  embraces ;  and,  by  Holy  Church  ! 
I  think  it  right  that  you  be  married  straight. 
Ere  vice  usurps  the  throne  that  should  be  held 
By  virtue  only.     Children,  not  far  from  hence 
There  is  a  chapel,  where  attending  priests 
Chant  holy  masses  for  a  soul's  repose. 
There  may  you  join  your  hands,  and  there  receive 
The  nuptial  benediction. 

San.  Nina,  you  must  obey  this  holy  friar,  and  make  me 
happy  -,  Saint  Petronila  sent  him. 

Nina.  It  is  against  my  wish  that  I  consent  5  yet,  father, 
you  know  best,  although  you  knov/  not  all. 

Ant.  {aside).  Indeed    I    do !      {Aloud)  Come   with   me, 
my  children, 
I'll  point  you  out  the  path,  to  where  you  may. 
By  holy  rites  pronounced,  become  one  flesh.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Serafna  and  Beppa. 

Ser.  My  distracted  mind,  like  some  wild  spendthrift, 
Has  drawn  upon  my  heart  till  it  is  bankrupt. 
God,  how  my  soul  is  weary  !  I  fear  the  sword 
Of  that  Don  Felix  may  prevail  against  him. 
He  is  a  man  well  knit  in  sinewy  strength  j 
Gaspar  a  boy.     O  spare  him,  gracious  Heaven  ! 

Bep.  To  wed  with  Isidora,  and  with  gibes 
Mock  at  the  tears  of  Donna  Serafina  ! 


The  Monk  of  Seville  79 

Madam,  you've  not  the  lofty  soul  of  woman, 
Or  you  would  act,  and  not  thus  vainly  talk. 
He's  lost  to  you  for  ever !     I've  discover'd, 
That  since  this  noon  he  hath  not  left  her  house, 
And  all's  in  preparation  for  their  union. 

Ser.  Have  they  been  left  together  ^     Then,  perchance, 
She  hath  been  foolish  too,  and  much  too  fond. 
Then  will  he  quit  her  soon.     Truant  Caspar, 
These  arms  shall  win  thee  back ! 

Bep,  Oh,  no  ! 

She  is  too  wise,  too  prudent,  and  too  good. 
Such  charms  of  mind  and  body  she  possesses, 
That  all  do  worship  her  ;  but  not  as  one 
Of  us  mere  mortals.     He  dare  not  think  of  it. 
She  is  too  perfect.     Caspar  is  hers  alone. 
And  you — are  thrown  aside  for  ever  ! 

Ser.  Is  it  so  ? 

Don  Caspar  hers  !     Never,  never  !  by  Heav'n, 
If  I  lose  him,  he  shall  be  lost  to  her  ! 
If  I  must  weep,  her  tears  shall  fall  with  mine  ! 
If  my  heart  breaks,  hers  shall  be  riven  too ! 
If  I  must  die, — and  that  I  shall,  I  feel. 
Loves  she  as  I  do,  they  may  dig  her  grave. 
Don  Felix,  may  thy  practised  sword  prove  true  ! — 
And  it  will  save  me  from  a  deed  of  horror. 

Bep.  Now  do  you  speak  as  a  wrong'd  woman  should. 
Keep  up  this  spirit — you  will  be  avenged. 
We  must  retire  ;  for  soon  they  will  appear.  [Exeunt, 

Scene  V, 

Another  part  of  the  Garden  attached  to  the  House  of 
Dofina  Serafina, 

Enter  Anselmo. 

I  would  that  it  were  o'er  !     A  heavy  gloom 
Hangs  on  my  spirits,  like  some  threat'ning  cloud 
O'erspreading  the  wide  firmament,  without 


8o  Olla  Podrida 

One  speck  of  blue,  like  hope,  to  cheer  th'  horizon. 
Yet,  from  what  cause  it  springs,  I  cannot  tell. 
His  sword  I  fear  not.     It  is  mine  estate, 
So  promising.     He  that  hath  nought  to  lose. 
Is  spurr'd  to  action  with  the  hope  of  gain. 
He  that  is  wealthy,  and  'gainst  fortune  plays. 
Is  like  the  gambler,  who  will  risk  his  means 
With  those  who  nothing  have. 

Enter  Felix, 

Felix,  If  you  have  waited  for  me  long,  Don  Caspar, 
It  was  against  my  will.     Tm  most  impatient 
To  bring  this  meeting  to  a  speedy  issue. 

Ans.  At  your  request,  Don  Felix,  I  am  here  ; 
And  if  you  please  there  should  be  strife  between  us. 
You'll  find  me  not  unnerved.     To  be  sincere, — 
I  do  not  wish  this  needless  controversy. 
Recall  your  words,  offensive,  as  untrue. 
And  take  my  profFer'd  hand.     Then  will  I  prove. 
And  not  till  then,  how  greatly  you  have  wrong'd  me. 

Felix,  That  which  is  said,  is  said.     I'll  not  retract. 
But  were  it  false,  which  I  cannot  believe. 
You've  slain  my  bosom  friend,  the  brave  Don  Perez. 

Ans,  He  wrong'd   me  much.      Upon  my  soul  he  did. 
I  must  not  prove  it  now. 

Felix,  Then  prove  yourself,  and  draw. 
For  see,  the  sun  is  down,  and  daylight  flies ; 
We  have  no  time  for  parley.  (Liraws,) 

\Beppa  and  Serajina  pass  behind  from  r.  to  I, 

Ans.  (drawing).  Then,  whether  you  or  I,  Don  Felix,  live 
To  hail  that  glorious  orb,  must  now  be  tried. 
Don  Felix,  to  your  guard.     Whate'er  the  issue, 
You  will  repent  this  most  ungovern'd  haste. 

[T/:ey  jight.  Don  Felix  is  disarmed  and  he  falls, 
Anselmo  stands  over  him  with  his  sivord  pointed  to 
his  breast,^ 

Ans.  You  question'd  if  I'd  manhood  in  my  frame  ; 


/ 


The  Monk  of  Seville  8i 

Allow,  Don  Felix,  that  the  question's  answer'd. 
You  call'd  me  an  impostor, — name  for  those 
Who  clothe  themselves  in  borrow'd  plumes,  t'appear 
Greater,  not  less,  than  v^^hat  they  are.     Then  know. 
He  you  upbraided  as  of  no  parentage, 
Whose  sword,  impatient,  waits  its  master's  bidding, 
T'avenge  the  affront,  is  heir  to  Guzman's  house, 
To  which,  in  ancestry,  thine  own  is  nothing. 
This  truth,  Don  Felix,  I  could  not  reveal, 

[Serafina  and  Beppa  appear  behind  in  the  wood.^ 
Till  we  had  measured  swords.     Honour  forbade  it. 
Now  manifest,  I  give  you  life,  and  proffer, 
If  that  you  please,  my  hand  in  amity. 

[Felix  rising,  Anselmo  presents  him  his  sword.] 

Felix.  Your  actions  prove  that  you  are  truly  noble. 
I  do  regret  the  language  which  I  used. 
And  cheerfully  retract  what  proves  so  false. 
Don  Gaspar,  are  you  satisfied  ?  {offering  hand). 

Ans.  {taking  Don  Felixes  hand).     And  happy. 
Now,  Isidora,  thou  art  surely  mine ; 
Vistas  of  bliss  are  opening  to  my  view  ; 
My  heart  expands  with  gratitude  to  Heav'n, 
And  tears  would  flow  of  penitence  and  joy. 
That  one  so  little  worthy,  thus  is  bless'd. 
O,  may  my  life  be  long,  that  I  may  prove 
To  gracious  Heav'n,  I'm  worthy  Isidora. 
Joy  !  joy  !  with  lightning's  speed,  I  fly 

\SeraJina,  who  has  advanced,  stabs  Anselmo  in  the  back.] 

Ser.  To  death  !   {Then  wishing  to  rush  to  him,  she  holds  out 
her  arms  and  exclaims)  Gaspar  !    Gaspar  ! 

\SeraJina  is  borne  off  fainting  by  Beppa  and  Garcias,  who 
have  entered.  Anselmo  leans  against  Don  Felix,  who 
supports  him,  and  then  gradually  sinks  out  of  his  arms 
to  the  ground.^ 

Ans,  I  felt  the  blow  would   come.     From  whom,  or 
where, 

O  F 

V 
\9 


82  OUa  Podrida 

Was  hid  in  the  obscure.     'Twas  Serafina ! 
I  knew  the  voice,  the  knell 

Felix,  Where  are  you  hurt  ? 

Ans,  Don  Felix,  by  that  friendship  we  have  pledged 
So  newly,  one  kind  office  I  request. 

Felix.     Curs'd  be  the  infuriate  jealous  wretch, 
That  one  so  noble  should  so  basely  fall ! 

Ans.  Nay,  curse  her  not,  she  is  too  curs'd  already. 
Her  future  life  will  be  a  constant  shower 
Of  curses  on  herself.     I  do  forgive  her. 
And  yet  to  die  so  young,  and  late  so  happy. 
More  painful  still  to  part  from  Isidora. 
Would  she  were  here,  that  I  might  comfort  her  ! 
My  mother,  too  !  O  God  !  'twill  break  her  heart  ! 

Enter  Superior,  Inez,   Isidora,  Nina,  and  Sancho.     Inez  and 
Isidora  run  to  Anselmo  and  hneel  down  by  him, 

Inez,  {to  Felix).     Wretch !  that  hath  done  this  bloody, 
hateful  deed. 
Receive  a  frantic  mother's  bitter  curse  ! 

Ans.  You  are  deceived,  my  mother ;  'twas  not  he 
Who  dealt  the  fatal  blow.     It  was  a  woman. 

Inez.  A  woman  !  say  you  •, 
Who  was  this  treach'rous  woman  ?  Let  me  know  her. 
That  I  may  work  on  her  a  woman's  vengeance. 

Isid.  I  ne'er  have  learn'd  to  curse — I  wish  I  had  : 
I  can  but  weep.     Look,  mother,  at  his  blood ! 
Oh,  staunch  it,  or  he'll  bleed  to  death. 

hiez.  Are  you  much  hurt,  Anselmo  ? 

Ans.  Mother,  to  death. 

'Tis  useless  to  deceive  you.     You  scarcely  found  me 
But  I  am  lost  again :  'twill  soon  be  over. 
{Faintly)  E'en  now  the  blood's  collecting  in  my  heart 
For  its  last  rally  ; — Isidora,  I  would  tell  thee 
What  pain  it  is  to  part,  but  my  strength  fails, 
And  my  parch'd  tongue  cannot  perform  its  duty. 

Isid.     To  part,  Anselmo  ?  Dost  thou  say  to  part  } 
No,  no ;  thou  shalt  not  die, — we  must  not  part. 


The  Monk  of  Seville  83 

What  false,  already !  How  could'st  thou  utter 
That  which,  to  me,  must  be  the  knell  of  death  ? 

(^Bursts  into  tears  and  embraces  him.) 

Ans,  Would  that  your  gentle  power  o'er  me  was  the  same 
In  death,  as  life :  then  should  I  live  for  ever. 
But — mother — fare  you  well — farewell — my  Isidora. 

\Groans  and  falls  dead.  Donna  Inez  faints,  and  is 
supported  by  Don  Felix  and  Nina.  Isidora,  nvhose 
face  was  hidden  in  Anselmo's  breast,  lifts  up  her  head 
and  looks  ivildly  at  the  body. 

Isid,  AnsQ\mo\  (^More  loudly)  A.nse\mo\  (Shrieks.  Throws 
herself  on  the  body.  The  rest  of  the  characters  group  round  the 
body,  and  the  curtain  falls\ 


THE   GIPSY; 

OR, 

"WHOSE  SON  AM  I?" 

A    COMEDY,    IN    THREE    ACTS. 


85 


DRAMATIS  PERSONiE. 

Men. 
Sir  Gilbert  Etheridge,  ^n  old  Admiral. 
Captain  Etheridge,  His  son  ;  grave. 
Captain  Mertoun  ;  gay. 
Old  Bargrove. 

Young  Peter  Bargrove,  His  son. 
William,  The  AdmiraFs  sailor-footman. 
Bill, 
Dick, 


'      I  Gips 


Women. 
Lady  Etheridge,  The  Admiral's  ivife, 
Agnes,  Her  daughter. 
Lucy,  The  daughter  of  Bargrove, 
Mrs  Bargrove. 
Nelly,  The  gipsy. 


86 


The     Gipsy 

Scene. — The  Hall,  the  residence  of  Sir  Gilbert,  and  the 
vicinity.     Time  that  of  acting. 

Act  I.     Scene  I, 

A  Room  in  a  respectable  country  inn. — Enter  Captain  Etheridge 
and  Captain  Mertoun,  ushered  in  by  the  Landlord. 

Land.  Will  you  be  pleased  to  take  anything,  gentlemen  ? 

Capt.  Eth.  I  can  answer  for  myself,  nothing. 

Capt.  Mer.  I  agree,  and  disagree,  with  you  j  that  is, 
I  coincide  with  you  in — nothing. 

Capt.  Eth.  Then  I  trust,  Mr  Harness,  that  you  will 
coincide  with  us  in  expediting  the  greasing  of  that  radical 
wheel  as  soon  as  possible,  and  let  us  know  when  the 
horses  are  put  to. 

Land.  Most  certainly,  Captain  Etheridge  ;  I  will  super- 
intend it  myself.  [Exit  Landlord. 

Capt.  Eth.  An  old  butler  of  my  father's,  who  set  up 
many  years  ago  with  a  few  hundred  pounds,  and  the 
Etheridge  Arms  as  a  sign.     He  has  done  well. 

Capt.  Mer.  That  is  to  say,  the  Etheridge  Arms  have  put 
him  on  his  legs,  and  drawing  corks  for  your  father  has 
enabled  him  to  draw  beer  for  himself  and  his  customers. 
Of  course  he  married  the  lady's  maid. 

Capt.  Eth.  No,  he  did  more  wisely ;  he  married  the 
cook. 

Capt.  Mer.  With   a  good  fat  portion  of  kitchen  stuff, 

and   a   life   interest   of  culinary  knowledge.     I   have   no 

87 


88  Olla  Podrida 

doubt  but  that  he  had  a  further  benefit  from  your  liberal 
father  and  mother. 

Capt.  Eth.  By-the-bye,  I  have  spoken  to  you  of  my 
father  repeatedly,  Edward;  but  you  have  not  yet  heard 
any  remarks  relative  to  my  mother. 

Capt,  Mer,  I  take  it  for  granted,  from  your  report  of 
your  father,  and  my  knowledge  {bowing)  of  the  offspring, 
that  she  must  be  equally  amiable. 

Capt.  Eth.  Had  she  been  so,  I  should  not  have  been 
silent;  but  as  I  have  no  secrets  from  you,  I  must  say, 
she  is  not  the — the  very  paragon  of  perfection, 

Capt.  Mer.  I  am  sorry  for  it. 

Capt.  Eth.  My  father,  disgusted  with  the  matrimonial 
traps  that  were  set  for  the  post-captain,  and  baronet  of 
ten  thousand  a  year,  resolved,  as  he  imagined  wisely, 
to  marry  a  woman  in  inferior  life ;  who,  having  no  pre- 
tensions of  her  own,  would  be  humble  and  domestic. 
He  chose  one  of  his  tenant's  daughters,  who  was  demure 
to  an  excess.  The  soft  paw  of  the  cat  conceals  her 
talons.  My  mother  turned  out  the  very  antipodes  of 
his  expectations. 

Capt.  Mer.  Hum  ! 

Capt.  Eth.  Without  any  advantages,  excepting  her 
alliance  with  my  father,  and  a  tolerable  share  of  rural 
beauty,  she  is  as  proud  as  if  descended  from  the  house 
of  Hapsburg — insults  her  equals,  tramples  on  her  inferiors, 
and — what  is  worse  than  all — treats  my  father  very  ill. 

Capt.  Mer.  Treats  him  ill !  what !  he  that  was  such 
a  martinet,  such  a  disciplinarian  on  board !  She  does 
not  beat  him  ? 

Capt.  Eth.  No,  not  exactly ;  but  so  completely  has  she 
gained  the  upper  hand,  that  the  Admiral  is  as  subdued  as 
a  dancing  bear,  obeying  her  orders  with  a  growl,  but  still 
obeying  them.  At  her  command  he  goads  himself  into 
a  passion  with  whomsoever  she  may  point  as  the  object 
of  his  violence. 

Capt.  Mer.  How  completely  she  must  have  mastered 
him  !     How  can  he  submit  to  it  ? 


The  Gipsy  89 

Capt.  Eth.  Habit,  my  dear  Mertoun,  reconciles  us  too 
much  ;  and  he,  at  whose  frown  hundreds  of  gallant  fellows 
trembled,  is  now  afraid  to  meet  the  eye  of  a  woman.  To 
avoid  anger  with  her,  he  affects  anger  with  every  one  else. 
This  I  mention  to  you,  that  you  may  guide  your  conduct 
towards  her.  Aware  of  your  partiality  to  my  sister,  it  may 
be  as  well 

Capt.  Mer.  To  hold  the  candle  to  the  devil,  you  mean. 
Your  pardon,  Etheridge,  for  the  grossness  of  the 
proverb. 

Capt.  Eth.  No  apology,  my  dear  fellow.  Hold  the  candle 
when  you  will,  it  will  not  burn  before  a  saint,  and  that's 
the  truth.  Follow  my  advice,  and  I  will  insure  you 
success.  I  only  wish  that  my  amatory  concerns  had  so 
promising  an  appearance. 

Capt.  Mer.  Why,  I  never  knew  that  you  were 
stricken. 

Capt.  Eth.  The  fact  is,  that  I  am  not  satisfied  with  my- 
self; and  when  I  am  away  from  my  Circe,  I  strive  all  I  can 
to  drive  her  from  my  memory.  By  change  of  scene, 
absence,  and  occupation,  I  contrive  to  forget  her  indifferent 
well.  Add  to  all  this,  I  have  not  committed  myself  by  word 
or  deed.  I  have  now  been  three  years  in  this  way ;  but 
the  moment  I  find  myself  within  two  miles  of  my  fair  one, 
as  the  towers  of  my  home  rise  upon  my  sight,  so  rises  the 
passion  in  my  bosom  ;  and  what  I  supposed  I  had  reasoned 
away  to  a  mere  dwarfish  penchant,  becomes  at  once  a 
mighty  sentiment. 

Capt.  Mer.  That  looks  very  like  attachment.  Three 
years,  did  you  say  ?  My  dear  brother  in  affliction,  make 
me  your  confident. 

Capt.  Eth.  I  intended  to  do  so,  or  I  should  not  have 
originated  the  subject.  My  father  brought  up  the  daughter 
of  our  steward,  Bargrove,  with  my  sister  Agnes.  I  have 
therefore  known  Lucy  from  her  infancy  ;  and  ought  I  to  be 
ashamed  to  say,  how  much  I  am  in  love  with  her  ? 

Capt.  Mer.  Etheridge,  this  is  a  point  on  which,  I  am 
afraid,  my  advice  would  not  be  well  received. 


90  Olla  Podrida 

Capt.  Eth.  Of  course  you  would  imply  that  she  must  be 
renounced. 

Capt.  Mer,  Most  assuredly ,  that  is  my  opinion  on  a 
prima  facie  view  of  the  case.  You  have  your  father's 
example. 

Capt,  Eth,  I  have,  but  still  there  are  many  points  in  my 
favour.  Bargrove  is  of  a  very  old,  though  decayed  family. 
Indeed,  much  more  ancient  than  our  own. 

Capt,  Mer,  I  grant  you,  there  is  one  difficulty  removed. 
But  still  your  relative  position.  He  is  now  your  father's 
steward. 

Capt.  Eth,  That  is  certainly  a  great  obstacle ;  but  on  the 
other  hand,  she  has  been  really  well  educated. 

Capt.  Mer.  Another  point  in  your  favour,  I  grant. 

Capt.  Eth.  With  respect  to  Lucy  herself,  she  is 

Capt.  Mer,  As  your  father  thought  your  mother — per- 
fection. Recollect,  the  soft  paw  of  the  cat  conceals  the 
talons. 

Capt,  Eth,  Judge  for  yourself  when  you  see  and  converse 
with  her.  I  presume  I  am  to  consider  myself  blind.  At 
ail  events,  I  have  decided  upon  nothing ;  and  have  neither, 
by  word  or  deed,  allowed  her  to  suppose  an  attachment  on 
my  part :  still  it  is  a  source  of  great  anxiety.  I  almost 
wish  that  she  were  happily  married.  By-the-bye,  my 
mother  hates  her. 

Capt,  Mer,  That's  not  in  your  favour,  though  it  is  in 
hers. 

Capt,  Eth,  And  my  father  doats  upon  her. 

Capt,  Mer,  That's  in  favoiir  of  you  both. 

Capt,  Eth,  Now,  you  have  the  whole  story,  you  may 
advise  me  as  you  please :  but  remember,  I  still  preserve 
my  veto. 

Capt.  Mer.  My  dear  Etheridge,  with  your  permission,  I 
will  not  advise  at  all.  Your  father  tried  in  the  same 
lottery  and  drew  a  blank ;  you  may  gain  the  highest 
prize ;  but  my  hopes  with  your  sister  render  it  a  most 
delicate  subject  for  my  opinion.  Your  own  sense  must 
guide  yoa 


The  Gipsy  91 

Capt,  Eth,  Unfortunately  it  often  happens,  that  when  a 
man  takes  his  feelings  for  a  guide,  he  walks  too  fast  for 
good  sense  to  keep  pace  with  him. 

Capt.  Mer.  At  all  events,  be  not  precipitate ;  and  do  not 
advance  one  step,  which,  as  a  man  of  honour,  you  may  not 
retrace. 

Capt.  Eth.  I  will  not,  if  I  can  help  it.  But  here  comes 
Mr  Harness. 

Enter  Landlord, 

Land.  The  horses  are  to.  Captain  Etheridge,  and  the 
wheel  is  in  order. 

Capt.  Eth.  Come  then,  Edward,  we  shall  not  be  long  get- 
ting over  these  last  eight  miles.     The  boys  know  me  well. 

Capt,  Mer.  {Going  out).  Yes,  and  the  length  of  your 
purse,  I  suspect,  my  dear  fellow.  {Exeunt  ambo.) 

Scene  IL 

A  Wood  in  the  hack-ground,  Gipsies^  tents ,  etc, 

Gipsies  come  forward,  group  themselves  ^  and  sing. 

The  king  will  have  his  tax, 

Tithes  to  parsons  fall. 

For  rent  the  landlord  racks, 

The  tenant  cheats  them  all ; 

But  the  gipsy's  claim 'd  right  is  more  ancient  yet. 

And  that  right  he  still  gains  by  the  help  of  his  wit. 

Chorus  {joining  hands). 

Then  your  hands  right  and  left,  see  saw, 

{All  turn.) 

Turn  your  backs  on  the  church  and  the  law  ; 
Search  all  the  world  throu;^h, 

From  the  king  on  his  throne, 
To  the  beggar — you'll  own 
There  are  none  like  the  gipsy  crew. 
Wherever  we  rove, 

"We're  sure  to  find  home  ; 
In  field,  lane,  or  grove, 

Then  roam,  boys,  roam  I 
'TIS  only  when  walls  his  poor  body  surround. 
That  homeless  a  free  roving  gipsy  is  found. 

(Chorus  as  before.) 


92  OUa  Podrida 

[Exeunt  all  the  gipsies  except  Nelly  ^  ivho,  ivith  Bill, 
comes  forward  ;  Bill,  with  a  bundle  on  a  pitchfork, 
over  his  shoulder.  Throws  down  the  bundle,  and 
takes  out  a  turkey, 

Nelly.  Is  that  all  that  thou  hast  gathered  ? 

Bill.  All !  Enough  too,  did  ye  know  the  sarcumstances. 
Travelled  last  night  good  twelve  miles  before  I  could  light 
on  this  here  cretur.  Never  seed  such  a  scarcity  o'  fowl. 
Farmers  above  tending  sich  like  things  now-a-days,  dom 
pride !  says  I. 

Nelly.  But  what  kept  ye  out  till  morning  ? 

Bill.  'Cause  why  I  was  kept  in.  Locked  up,  by  gosh ! 
Why,  arter  dark,  I'd  just  nabbed  this  here,  when  out  pops 
on  me  the  farmer's  wife  j  and  so  she  twists  her  scraggy 
neck  round  like  a  weathercock  in  a  v/hirlwind,  till  at  last 
she  hears  where  Master  Redcap  wor  a  gobbling.  I'd  just 
time  to  creep  under  a  cart,  when  up  she  comes  ;  so  down 
goes  I  on  all  fours  and  growls  like  a  strange  dog. 

Nelly.  And  one  day  thou  wilt  be  hung  like  one. 

Bill.  Every  one  gets  his  promotion  in  time.  In  goes  the 
woman  and  calls  her  husband ;  and  though  on  all  fours,  I 
warn't  a  match  for  two ;  so  I  slinks  into  a  barn  and  twists 
the  neck  of  the  hanimal,  that  a  might  not  peach.  Well ; 
farmer  comes  out,  and  seeing  nought  but  barn  door  open, 
curses  his  man  for  a  lazy  hound  and  locks  it,  then  walks 
home,  leaving  I  fixed.     Warn't  that  a  good  un  ? 

Nelly.  How  did'st  thou  contrive  to  escape  ? 

Bill.  I  burrowed  into  the  back  of  the  wheat.  Two 
jockies  came  in  at  daylight  to  thrash 

Nelly.  And  they  would  have  done  well  to  have  begun 
upon  the  rogue  in  grain. 

Bill.  Thank  ye,  mistress.  But,  howsomdever,  the 
farmer  came  wi  'um,  and  a  waundy  big  dog  that  stagged 
me,  and  barked  like  fury.  "  There  be  summut  there," 
says  farmer  j  so  I  squealed  like  a  dozen  rats  in  the  wheat. 
"R.ats  agen,"  says  he.  **  Tummus,  go  fetch  the  ferrets; 
and  Bob,  be  you  arter  the  terriers.     I'll  go  get  my  break- 


The  Gipsy  93 

fast,  and  then  we'll  rout  un  out.  Come,  Bully."  But 
Bully  wouldn't,  till  farmer  gave  un  a  kick  that  set  un 
howling ;  and  then  out  they  all  went,  and  about  a  minute 
arter  I  makes  a  bolt.  Terrible  fuss  about  a  turkey  ;  warn't 
it,  Nell  ? 

Nelly.  Hast  thou  seen  Richard  ? 

Bi//.  Never  put  eyes  on  him  since  we  parted  last  night ; 
but,  as  his  tongue  is  as  well  hung  as  he  will  be  himself, 
he'll  gie  ye  a  triple  bob  major,  for  here  he  comes. 

Enter  Dick,  pulls  out  two  geese,  andjlings  them  down, 

Dick,  Ah,  missus,  I  sha'n't  last  long.  I  shall  soon  be 
scragged.  I'm  growing  honest.  Out  of  a  flock  of  forty, 
I've  only  prigged  two.  To  make  amends,  I  did  gnaw  off 
the  heads  of  two  more,  and  so  the  foxes  will  have  the 
credit  of  the  job. 

Bill.  That  was  well  thought  of,  my  pal. 

Dick.  May  I  one  day  grow  honest,  if  I  don't  make  up 
for  last  night's  paltry  prig.  Come,  let's  have  one  roasted, 
missus — I  prefers  roast  goose.  Honest  hanimal  !  only 
fit  to  be  plucked  and  eaten.  I  say,  missus,  I  stumbled  on 
a  cove  this  morning,  that  I  thinks  will  prove  a  bleeding 
cull, — honest  hanimal,  only  fit  to  be  plucked 

Bill.  And  eaten,  Dick  ? 

Dick.  Yes,  with  your  dom'd  jaw,  and  so  cly  it.  This 
here  cove  sits  him  down  under  a  tree,  with  his  head  a-one 
side,  like  a  fowl  with  the  pip,  and,  with  a  book  in  his 
hand  talks  a  mortal  deal  of  stuff  about  shaking  spears  and 
the  moon.  So,  when  I  had  spied  enow,  I  gets  up  and 
walks  straight  to  him,  and  axes  him,  could  he  tell  where 
the  great  fortin-telling  woman  were  to  be  found  in  the 
wood  ;  she  as  knew  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future. 
Laid  a  coil  for  him,  my  girl.  He  be  the  son  of  the  great 
Squire's  steward,  that  lives  at  the  Hall,  and  he  says  that 
he  be  mightily  anxious  to  have  his  fortin  told.  He  seems 
to  be  mortal  simple. 

Nelly.  What  didst  thou  hear  him  mouth  about  ? 

Dick,  May  I  grow  honest  if  I  bees  able  to  tell,  'twere 


94 


Olla  Podrida 


sich   outlandish   gibberish.      What   have   the   rest    done, 
missus  ? 

Nelly,  Why,  like  you,  Richard,  they're  growing  honest. 
DicL  Ah !  ware  o'  that.  My  grandam,  who  was  the 
real  seventh  daughter  of  a  seventh  daughter,  said  of  I, 
in  my  cradle,  "  The  moment  this  here  child  grows  honest, 
he'll  be  hung."  I've  done  my  best,  all  my  life,  to  keep 
my  neck  out  of  the  halter. 

Nelly.  So  you  have,  Richard.  I  went  up  to  the  Hall  to 
beg  for  the  fragments  off  the  rich  man's  table.  Lady 
Bountiful,  who  was  bountiful  in  nought  but  reviling, 
was  the  person  whom  I  met.  Bridewell  and  the  stocks 
was  the  tune,  and  the  big  dog  sang  the  chorus  at  my 
heels.  But  I'll  be  more  than  even  with  her.  If  I  have 
the  heart  to  feel  an  injury,  she  shall  find  that  I've  a  head 
to  help  my  heart  to  its  revenge.     Revenge — I  love  it  ! 

Bill.  That  you  do,  missus  ;  I'll  answer  for  you  there. 
If  you  be  affronted,  you  be  the  most  cantackerous  hanimal 
that  ever  boiled  a  pot.  Come,  Dick,  let's  take  the  jacket 
off  our  customers,  for  fear  of  mischief.  (^Dick  and  Bill 
retire  nvith  the  poultry.) 

Nelly  (assuming  a  more  elevated  manner^  Heigho  !  how 
many  things,  long  forgotten,  come  to  my  memory  on  this 
spot !  Hard  by  I  was  brought  up,  and  even  from  this 
place  I  can  see  where  my  father  and  mother  lie  buried. 
Here  I  was  once  innocent  and  happy.  No,  not  happy, 
or  I  should  have  stayed,  and  still  been  innocent.  But 
away  with  the  useless  thought  !  The  steward's  son — it 
must  be  young  Bargrove.  I  did  not  meet  him  yesterday 
when  I  was  at  the  village,  but  I  saw  and  spoke  to  Lucy, 
his  sister,  who  was  nursed  at  this  breast ;  and  how  I 
yearned  to  press  her  to  it !  Pretty  creature,  how  she 
hath  grown !  Little  did  my  lady  think,  when  she  drove 
me  away,  that  I  was  the  Nelly  who  used  to  be  so  much 
at  the  Hall,  nursing  Lucy,  whilst  Mrs  Bargrove  gave  her 
breast  to  Miss  Agnes.  Little  did  Lucy,  when  she  loaded 
my  wallet  with  victuals,  think  that  she  had  so  long  lain  in 
these  arms.     Heigho  !    bye-gone  is  bye-gone  I     What  a 


The  Gipsy  95 

haughty  woman  is  that  Lady  Etheridge  !  And  yet,  she 
was  once  a  farmer's  daughter,  but  little  better  than  my- 
self. Could  I  be  revenged  on  her  !  Ah !  I  may ;  I 
know  every  particular  connected  with  the  family ;  but 
here  comes  the  lad.  \_Nelly  retires 

Enter  Peter  Bargrove,  hook  in  his  hand, 

Peter.  O  solitude — solitude  !  what  a  quiet  thing  is 
solitude !  especially  when  you  hold  your  tongue.  I  only 
wish  that  I  had  a  dozen  of  my  old  schoolfellows  here  to 
enjoy  it  with  me,  for,  as  this  divine  Shakespeare  says,  it 
is  so  sweet  to  be  alone.  I  wonder  whether,  if  I  were  to 
take  to  study,  if  I  could  not  in  time  write  a  Shakespeare 
myself?  I'm  blessed  if  I  couldn't  !  How  proud  father 
ought  to  be  of  such  a  son  !  But  father  wouldn't  care  if 
I  did :  he  thinks  of  nothing  but  the  harvest :  what  a 
difference  there  is  between  father  and  me  !  I  can't  account 
for  it.  O,  here  comes  the  woman  of  fate.  What  a  gaunt- 
looking  body  !  What  eyes  !  She  can  see  through  a  post ! 
Her  looks  go  through  me  already. 

Nelly  {advancing).  There  is  a  bright  leaf  in  the  book  of 
your  fate,  young  sir,  that  waits  only  for  my  finger  to  turn 
it. 

Peter,  Then  wet  your  thumb,  good  woman,  and  let's 
have  the  news  in  a  twinkling. 

Nelly,  Not  so  fast,  thou  youth  of  lustrous  fortunes  ! 
The  time  is  not  yet  come.  Time  was,  time  is,  and  time 
shall  be  ! 

Peter,  Bless  me  !  how  very  prophetical ! 

Nelly,  Meet  me  here,  three  hours  hence  ;  I  shall  then 
have  communed  with  the  astral  influences  ! 

Peter,  Astral  influences  !  I  know  of  no  such  people 
hereabouts. 

Nelly,  The  stars — the  noonday  stars  ! 

Peter,  The  noonday  stars  !  who  can  see  the  stars  at 
noonday  ? 

Nelly,  The  gifted. 

Peter  {looling  up).  V/ell,  then,  I  ar'n't  one  of  the  gifted. 


g6  Olla  Podrida 

Nelly.  Yes  ;  but  you  might  be,  if  you  had  but  faith. 

Peter.  Well,  I'm  sure  I've  got  plenty — try  it." 

Nelly.  Very  well ;  stand  thus.  Now  wave  your  hands 
thus  high  in  the  air,  then  shade  the  sight,  and  close  the 
left  eye  -,  look  up,  and  tell  me  what  thou  seest  there. 

Peter.  Three  carrion  crows. 

Nelly.  Nought  else  ? 

Peter.  No. 

Nelly.  Not  all  the  heavenly  hosts  ? 

Peter.  Not  a  star  as  big  as  a  sparkle  from  a  red-hot 
horse-shoe. 

Nelly  {pointing  up),  Seest  thou  not  those  two  bright 
stars.  Castor  and  Pollux  ? 

Peter.  No,  I  can't,  upon  my  honour. 

Nelly.  Not  Copernicus,  so  fiery  red?  not  the  Great  Bear  ? 

Peter.  Why,  I  don't  know  j  I  really  think  I  do  see 
something.     No  I  don't,  after  all. 

Nelly.  Ah  !  then  you  want  faith — you  want  faith.  I, 
who  see  them  all,  must  read  them  for  you.  Away ;  in 
three  hours  hence,  you'll  meet  me  here.  {Turns  aivay.) 

Peter.  Well,  you  might  at  least  be  civil ;  but  that's  not 
the  custom  of  great  people.  What  a  wonderful  woman, 
to  see  the  stars  at  noon-day !  Well,  I'll  put  my  faith  in 
her,  at  all  events. 

{Exit  Peter.     Dick  aftd  Bill  come  for ivard  with   the 
poultry  picked.) 

Dick.  Well,  missus,  ban't  he  a  soft  cove  ? 

Nelly.  I  have  not  done  with  him  yet. 

Bill.  Now  let's  get  our  dinner  ready.  The  fowls  be  a 
axing  for  the  pot. 

Dick.  And  goose  to  be  roasted. 

Bill.  No,  I  say ;  they'd  smell  us  a  mile.  Your  liquorice 
chops  will  transport  you  yet. 

Dick.  Tell  ye.  Bill,  goose  shall  be  roasted.  May  I  grow 
honest,  but  it  shall.  I'll  give  up  a  pint — I'll  sacrifice  sage 
and  innions.     Eh,  missus  ? 

Nelly.  The  sooner  they  are  out  of  sight  the  better. 

\They  retire;  the  scene  closes. 


The  Gipsy  97 

Scene  III. 

A  Drawing-Room  in  the  Hall, 

Enter  Admiral  and  Lady  Etheridge, 

Lady  Eth,  Indeed,  Admiral,  I  insist  upon  it,  that  you 
give  the  brutal  seaman  warning  ;  or,  to  avoid  such  a 
plebeian  mode  of  expression,  advertise  him  to  depart. 

Adm.  My  dear,  old  Barnstaple  has  served  me  afloat  and 
ashore  these  four-and-twenty  years,  and  he's  a  little  the 
worse  for  wear  and  tear.  In  a  cutting-out  affair  his  sword 
warded  off  the  blow  that  would  have  sacrificed  my  life. 
We  must  overlook  a  little 

Lady  Eth.  Yes,  that's  always  your  way  ;  always  excus- 
ing. A  serving  man  to  appear  fuddled  in  the  presence  of 
Lady  Etheridge  !  faugh  !  And  yet,  not  immediately  to 
have  his  coat  stripped  off  his  back,  and  be  kicked  out  of 
doors  ;  or,  to  avoid  the  plebeian,  expatriated  from  the 
portals. 

Adm.  Expatriated  ! 

Lady  Eth.  How  you  take  one  up,  Admiral.  You  know 
I  meant  to  say  expatiated. 

Adm.  Ah  !  that  is  mending  the  phrase,  indeed.  I  grant 
that  he  was  a  little  so  so  j  but  then,  recollect,  it  was  I  who 
gave  them  the  ale. 

Lady  Eth.  Yes,  that's  your  way,  Sir  Gilbert ;  you  spoil 
them  all.  I  shall  never  get  a  servant  to  show  me  proper 
respect.  I  may  scold,  scold,  scold ;  or,  to  speak  more 
aristocratically,  vituperate,  from  morning  till  night. 

Adm.  Well,  then,  my  dear,  why  trouble  yourself  to 
vituperate  at  all,  as  you  call  it  }  Keep  them  at  a  distance, 
and  leave  scolding  to  the  housekeeper. 

Lady  Eth.  Housekeeper,  indeed  !  No,  Sir  Gilbert ;  she's 
just  as  bad  as  the  rest.  Once  give  her  way,  and  she  would 
treat  me  with  disrespect,  and  cheat  you  in  the  bargain ,  or, 
less  plebeianly,  nefariously  depropriate 

Adm.  Appropriate,  you  mean,  my  dear. 

Lady  Eth.  And  appropriate  I  said,  Admiral,  did  I  not  ? 

O  G 


98  Olla  Podrida 

Adm.  Why,  really- 


Lady  Eth.  {raising  her  voice).     Did  I  not,  Sir  Gilbert  ? 

Adm.  Why,  my  dear,  I  suppose  it  was  a  mistake  of  mine. 
Well,  my  love,  let  them  appropriate  a  little — I  can  afford 
it. 

Lady  Eth.  You  can't  afford  it,  Sir  Gilbert, 

Adm.  My  dear  Lady  Etheridge,  money  can  but  buy  us 
luxuries  \  and  as  I  don't  know  a  greater  luxury  than  quiet, 
I  am  very  willing  to  pay  for  it. 

Lady  Eth.  You  may  be  so.  Admiral,  but  my  duty  as  a 
wife  will  not  permit  me  to  suffer  you  to  squander  away 
your  money  so  foolishly.  Buy  quiet,  indeed !  I  would 
have  you  to  know.  Sir  Gilbert,  you  must  first  consult 
your  wife  before  you  can  make  a  purchase. 

Adm.  Yes,  my  lady,  it  is  a  fatal  necessity. 

Lady  Eth.  Fatal  fal,  lal.  But,  Sir  Gilbert,  you  were 
always  a  spendthrift ;  witness  the  bringing  up  of  the 
steward's  children  with  your  own,  mixing  the  aristocratic 
streams  with  plebeian  dregs  !  Sir  Gilbert,  the  Bargroves 
are  constantly  intruding  in  our  house,  and  Agnes  will  be 
no  gainer  by  keeping  such  company. 

Adm.  Whose  company,  my  dear  ?  Do  you  mean  Lucy 
Bargrove's  ?  I  wish  all  our  fashionable  acquaintance  were 
only  half  so  modest  and  so  well-informed.  She  is  a  sweet 
girl,  and  an  ornament  to  any  society. 

Lady  Eth.  Indeed,  Sir  Gilbert !  Perhaps  you  intend  to 
wear  the  ornament  yourself.  A  second  Lady  Etheridge, — 
he,  he,  he !  When  you  have  vexed  me  to  death,  or,  to 
speak  more  like  a  lady,  when  you  have  inurned  my 
mortal  remains. 

Adm.  Indeed,  my  lady,  I  have  no  idea  of  the  kind.  I 
don't  want  to  break  the  fixed  resolution  that  I  have  long 
since  made,  never  to  marry  a  second  wife. 

Lady  Eth.  I  presume  you  mean  to  imply  that  you  have 
had  sufficient  torment  in  the  first  ? 

Adm.  I  said  not  so,  my  dear ;  I  only  meant  to  remark, 
that  I  should  not  again  venture  on  matrimony. 

Lady  Eth.  I    can    take    a   hint.    Sir    Gilbert,   though   I 


The  Gipsy  99 

don't  believe  you.  All  husbands  tell  their  wives  they'll 
never  marry  again ;  but,  as  dead  men  tell  no  tales,  so  dead 
wives 

Adm.  (Aside),  Don't  scold. 

Lady  Eth.  What's  that.  Sir  Gilbert  ? 

Adm.  Nothing — not  worth  repeating.  But  to  revert  to 
the  Bargroves ;  I  think,  my  dear,  when  you  consider  their 
father's  long  and  faithful  services,  some  gratitude  on  my 
part 

Lady  Eth.  Which  they  may  live  not  to  thank  you  for. 

Adm.  Recollect,  my  dear,  that  the  Bargroves  are  a  very 
old,  though  decayed  family.  One  half  of  this  estate  was, 
at  one  time,  the  property  of  their  ancestors.  It  was  lost 
by  a  suit  in  chancery. 

Lady  Eth.  Then  it  never  was  rightfully  theirs. 

Adm.  I  beg  your  pardon  there,  my  dear ;  chancery  will 
as  often  take  the  property  from,  as  give  it  to,  the  rightful 
owner.  Bargrove  is  of  a  good  old  family,  and  has  some 
money  to  leave  to  his  children. 

Lady  Eth.  Out  of  your  pocket.  Sir  Gilbert. 

Adm.  Not  so ;  Bargrove  has  a  property  of  his  own, 
nearly  three  hundred  acres,  which  has  been  in  the  family 
for  many  years. 

Lady  Eth.  Ever  since  you  afforded  him  the  means  of 
purchasing  it. 

Adm.  I  said  many  years,  long  before  my  name  was  added 
to  the  baronetage. 

Lady  Eth.  Well,  Admiral,  it  may  be  the  case  ;  but  still 
there  is  no  excuse  for  your  folly  :  and  mark  me.  Sir  Gilbert, 
I  will  not  have  that  pert  minx,  Lucy  Bargrove,  closeted 
with  my  daughter  Agnes.  x\s  to  the  boy,  it  is  a  down- 
right puppy  and  fool,  or,  to  speak  less  plebeianly,  is  a  non 
composite  mentus. 

Adm.  Peter  is  not  clever,  but,  without  education,  he 
would  have  been  worse.  It  is  not  our  fault  if  we  are  not 
blessed  with  talent.     Lucy  has  wit  enough  for  both. 

Lady  Eth.  Lucy  again !  I  declare.  Admiral,  my  nerves 
are  lacerated ;  or,  to  descend  to  your  meanness  of  expres- 


loo  Olla  Podrida 

sion,  it  is  quite  shocking  in  a  person  of  your  age  to  become 
so  infatuated  with  an  artful  hussy.  Now,  Sir  Gilbert,  am 
I  to  be  protected,  or  am  I  to  submit  to  insult  ?  Is  that  sea- 
brute  to  remain,  or  am  I  to  quit  the  house  ? 

Adm.  {Aside.)  I  should  prefer  the  latter.  {Aloud.)  Why, 
my  lady,  if  he  must  go 

Lady  Eth.  Must  go  ?  {rings  the  bell).  Yes,  Sir  Gilbert, 
and  with  a  proper  lecture  from  you. 

Enter  William  ;  Lady  Etheridge  sits  down  with  a  wave  of 

her  hand. 

Lady  Eth.  Now,  Admiral. 

Adm.  William,  you — you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your- 
self, getting  half-seas  over,  and  behaving  in  that  manner — 
but — to  be  sure,  I  sent  you  the  ale. 

Will.  Yes,  your  honour,  famous  stuff  it  was  ! 

Lady  Eth.  Sir  Gilbert ! 

Adm.  And  that's  no  excuse.  I  did  not  tell  you  to  get 
drunk,  and  the  consequence  is,  that  that,  without  a  proper 
apology 

Will.  Beg  your  pardon.  Admiral,  and  yours  too,  my 
lady. 

Lady  Eth.  Sir  Gilbert ! 

Adm.  The  fact  is,  that  without  the  apology,  in  one  word, 
you,  you  {looking  round  at  Lady  Etheridge)  must  take 
warning,  sir,  you  leave  this  house,  sir. 

Will.  Leave,  yer  honour,  arter  twenty-five  years'  sarvi- 
tude  ! 

Lady  Eth.  Sir  Gilbert ! 

Adm.  Yes,  sir,  leave  the  house — damme  ! 

Will.  If  yer  honour  hadn't  given  the  ale,  I  shouldn't 
have  got  into  trouble. 

Lady  Eth.  {Rising,  and  as  she  is  leaving  the  room).  Sir 
Gilbert,  I  am  glad  to  perceive  that  you  have  a  proper 
respect  for  me  and  for  yourself.  [Exit. 

Adm.  William,  William,  you  must  be  aware  that  I  cannot 
permit  you  to  remain,  v/hen  Lady  Etheridge  is  displeased 
with  you. 


The  Gipsy  loi 

Will.  First  offence,  yer  honour. 

Adm,  But,  however,  I'll  try  and  get  you  another  place, 
as  your  general  conduct  has  been  correct. 

Will.  Thank  you.  I  little  thought,  that  after  twenty- 
five  years'  sarvitude  {wipes  his  eyes).  I  can  always  get  a 
ship.  Admiral. 

Adm.  Why,  yes,  and  I  only  wish  that  I  had  one,  in  which 
to  give  you  a  good  rating,  my  good  fellow  ;  but  William, 
you  must  be  aware 

Will.  Yes,  yer  honour,  I  see  how  the  cat  jumps. 

Adm.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Will.  I  sees  that  yer  honour  is  no  longer  in  command  of 
your  own  ship. 

Adm.  You  scoundrel !    What  do  you  mean  ? 

Will.  Lord,  Sir  Gilbert,  we  all  knows  how  the  matter  be, 
and  as  how  you  can't  call  your  soul  your  own.  It  warn't 
so  in  the  Menelaus,  when  your  little  finger  was  enough  to 
make  every  man  jump  out  of  his  shoes.  You  ivere  a  bit 
of  a  tartar,  that's  sartin, — and,  now  you've  cotched  a 
tartar. 

Adm.  You  insolent  scoundrel ! 

Will.  Your  honour  arn't  angry,  I  hope,  but  we  all  pities 
ye,  we  do  indeed  ! 

Adm.  Unbearable ! 

Will.  And  we  says  in  the  servants'  hall — and  we  be  all 
agreed  there — that  you  be  the  kindest  master  in  the  world 
— but,  that  as  for  my  lady 

Adm.  Silence,  sir  ;  what  insolence  is  this  ?  Out  of  the 
room  immediately  ;  now,  if  I  had  you  on  board,  you 
scoundrel,  I'd  give  you  as  good  a  four  dozen  as  ever  a 
fellow  had  in  his  life.  I  was  just  going  to  pension  the 
blackguard,  now  I'Jl  see  him  hanged  first. 

(The  Admiral  walks  up  a?id  down  the  room  in  a  rage^ 
William  still  remains  behind^ 

Well,  well,  even  my  servants  laugh  at,  pity  me.  Here 
I  am,  cooled  down  into  the  quietest  man  in  the  world,  yet 
obliged  to  put    myself  in   a   passion  whenever   my  wife 


102  Olla  Podrida 

pleases.  It  is  very  hard  to  lose  my  temper  and  my 
character  at  her  bidding ;  but  if  I  don't  she  would  put  her- 
self into  such  a  rage  with  me,  that  I  should  be  even  worse 
off; — of  the  two  evils  I  must  choose  the  least ;  but  in 
falling  in  love,  I  was  a  great  fool,  and  that's  the  truth. 
Will.  So  you  was,  Admiral,  that's  sartin. 

\The  Admiral  rwts  at  him  ivith  a  stick.      William  runs  off. 

Adm.  Scoundrel !     V/ell,  it  is  the  truth. 

Enter  Lady  Ether idge,  O.P. 

Lady  Eth.  What  is  the  truth,  Sir  Gilbert  ? 
Adm.  Truth,  my  lady  ?  why,  that  when  a  man's  intoxi- 
cated, he  commits  great  folly. 

Lady  Eth.  Yes,  and  ought  to  be  punished  for  it. 
Adtn.  {Aside.)  I  am  sure  that  I  have  been. 

Enter  Agnes  ^  who  runs  up  aftd  kisses  her  father. 

Adtn.  Well,  Agnes,  my  little  clipper,  where  are  you 
going  this  morning  ? 

Agnes.  Down  to  the  homestead,  papa,  with  Lucy 
Bargrove. 

Lady  Eth.  I  must  request.  Miss  Etheridge,  that  you  will 
be  more  select  in  your  company.  A  steward's  daughter  is 
not  the  proper  companion  for  the  house  of  Etheridge. 

Agnes.  Indeed,  mamma,  the  society  of  Lucy  Bargrove 
will  never  be  prejudicial  to  me.  I  wish  you  knew  what 
an  unassuming  girl  she  is,  and  yet  so  clever  and  well 
informed.  Besides,  mamma,  have  we  not  been  playmates 
since  we  have  been  children  ?  It  would  be  cruel  to  break 
with  her  now,  even  if  we  felt  so  inclined.  I  could  not 
do  it. 

Lady  Eth.  There,  Admiral,  you  feel  the  effect  of  your 
want  of  prudence,  of  your  ridiculous  good-nature.  An 
unequal  friendship  insisted  upon,  and  a  mother  treated 
with  disrespect. 

Agnes.  Indeed,  mamma,  I  had  no  such  intention.     I  only 


The  Gipsy  103 

pleaded  my  own  cause.     If  my  father  and  you  insist  upon 
it,  much  as  I  regret  it,  it  will  be  my  duty  to  obey  you. 

Lady  Eth.  Miss  Etheridge,  we  insist  upon  it. 

Adm.  Nay,  Lady  Etheridge,  I  do  not, — that  is  exactly 
— {Lady  Etheridge  looks  astonished  and  bounces  out  of  the  room.) 
My  dearest  Agnes,  I  must  defend  poor  Lucy  against  tlie 
prejudices  of  your  mother,  if  I  can ;  but  I'm  afraid, — very 
much  afraid.  Your  mother  is  an  excellent  woman,  but 
her  over  anxiety  for  your  weh^are 

Agnes.  There  was  no  occasion  to  remind  me  of  my 
mother's  kindness.  When  a  daughter  looks  into  a  parent's 
heart  through  the  medium  of  her  duty,  she  should  see 
there  no  error,  and  believe  no  wrong. 

Adm.  That's  a  good  girl.  Now  let  us  take  a  turn  in 
the  garden  before  dinner. 

Agfies.  Shall  I  ask  mamma  to  accompany  us  ? 

Adm.  No,  no,  my  love,  she's  busy,  depend  upon  it. 

\Exeunt  ambo. 

Scene  IV. 

The  Hall  of  an  old-jashioned  farming  house. 

Old  Bar.  (outside.)  Don't  take  the  saddle  off  her,  boy, 
I'll  be  out  again  in  ten  minutes. 

{Enter  Bargrove.)  Poof — this  is,  indeed,  fine  weather 
for  the  harvest.  We  can't  cut  fast  enough — and  such 
crops  !     {Seats  himself.)     My  dear,  where  are  you  ? 

Mrs  Bar.  {outside.)  I'm  coming.  [Enters. 

Bar.  Is  dinner  ready  ?  No  time,  my  dear,  to  wait.  We 
are  carrying  at  North  Breck  and  Fifteen  Acre.  Good 
three  miles  oiFj  the  people  will  have  dined  before  I'm 
back. 

Mrs  Bar.  Lord  bless  you,  Bargrove  !  don't  fuss — can't 
they  go  on  without  you  ? 

Bar.  Yes,  my  dear,  they  can  ;  but  the  question  is,  if  they 
will.     This  fine  weather  mustn't  be  lost. 

Mrs  Bar.  Nor  your  dinner  either.  It  will  be  ready  in 
five  minutes. 


I04  Olla  Podrida 

Bar.  "Well,  well, — where's  Lucy  ? 

Mrs  Bar,  Upstairs,  with  Miss  Agnes.  She's  a  sweet 
young  lady. 

Bar.  Yes,  and  so  mild,  and  so  good-tempered. 

Mrs  Bar.  That  sweet  temper  of  hers  don't  come  from 
her  mother,  but  from  me. 

Bar.  From  you  ? 

Mrs  Bar.  Didn't  I  suckle  her  as  well  as  Master 
Edward  ?     'Tis  the  milk  makes  the  nature. 

Bar.  Good-natured  you  are,  my  dear,  that's  certain. 
There  may  be  something  in  it,  for  look  at  Peter.  He  was 
nursed  by  that  foolish  woman,  Sally  Stone,  when  you  put 
him  away  for  Master  Edward.  I  can  make  nothing  of 
Peter,  dame. 

Mrs  Bar.  Well,  really  Mr  Bargrove,  I  can't  find  much 
fault  in  him.  Bating  that  he's  idle,  and  extravagant,  and 
won't  mind  what's  said  to  him,  and  don't  try  to  please  you, 
and  talks  foolishly,  I  see  no  harm  in  the  boy. 

Bar.  No  harm — heh  ? 

Mrs  Bar.  All  this  may  appear  improper  in  another,  but 
somehow,  it  does  not  appear  so  very  bad  in  one's  own 
child. 

Bar.  He's  his  mother's  child,  that's  plain  ;  but  I  say 
(striking  his  stick  upon  the  ground),  he's  a  foolish,  ungrate- 
ful, wicked  boy. 

Mrs  Bar.  Not  wicked,  Bargrove,  don't  say  that.  He  is 
a  little  foolish,  I  grant,  but  then  he's  young  ;  and,  by-and- 
bye,  he'll  grow  tired  of  being  idle. 

Bar,  That's  what  no  one  was  ever  tired  of,  when  he 
once  took  a  liking  to  it.  But,  however,  I  will  try  if  I 
can't  bring  him  to  his  senses.     Where  is  he  now  ? 

Mrs  Bar.  Heaven  knows  !  He  was  up  very  early  for  him 
this  morning,  and  took  a  book  with  him,  so  you  see  there 
are  some  signs  of  amendment. 

Bar.  Well,  well, — we  shall  see.  Bat  I  think  dinner 
must  be  ready  by  this  time.  Come,  my  dear,  time's 
precious. 

\  Exeunt  amho. 


The  Gipsy  105 

Enter  Agnes,  in  a  ivalking  dress,  ivith  Lucy, 

Agnes.  Now,  Lucy  dear,  I  will  stay  no  longer,  for  your 
dinner  is  ready. 

Lucy,  Indeed,  Miss  Agnes,  I  beg  that  you  will  not  go  so 
soon.  Of  what  consequence  is  it  when  I  dine  ?  I  dine 
every  day,  but  every  day  I  am  not  honoured  with  your 
company. 

Agnes.  Nonsense honoured.     How  you  have  altered 

in  your  behaviour  to  me  lately — so  forma],  and  so  stiff, 
now,  I  quite  hate  you. 

Lucy,  Indeed  my  heart  is  neither  formal  nor  stiff;  but 
when  I  was  familiar  with  you,  I  was  young,  and  knew  not 
the  difference  of  our  situations.  I  do  now,  and  only  pay 
respect  to  whom  respect  is  due. 

Agnes.  Then  you  have  become  very  stupid,  and  I  shall 
detest  you.  That's  all  your  knowledge  will  have  gained 
you,  Miss  Lucy  j  nay  more,  I  will  not  come  here  so  often  if 
you  do  not  treat  me  as  you  used  to  do,  and  call  me  Agnes. 

Lucy,  Rather  than  that  you  should  stay  away,  I  will  obey 
you,  but  I  still  think  that  it  is  not  right.  Consider,  when 
we  used  to  learn  and  play  together,  I  called  your  brother 
**  Edward,"  but  how  improper  it  would  be  if  I  were  to  call 
him  so  now. 

Agnes,  I  don't  think  that  his  objections  would  be  very 
decided,  Lucy,  as  you  happen  to  be  such  a  pretty  girl : 
however,  I'll  ask  him,  when  he  comes  home  to-day. 

Lucy.   Ah,  Miss  Agnes,  pray,  pray,  don't  mention  it. 

Agnes,  Well,  you  are  pretty  enough  without  blushing  so 
much.  I'll  let  you  off,  provided  you  speak  to  me  as  I  wish. 
But  now,  Miss  Gravity,  I've  a  secret  to  tell  you. 

Lucy,  A  secret  ? 

Agnes,  I  have  found  out  that  there's  a  gang  of  gipsies  in 
the  wood. 

Lucy,  Is  that  your  secret  ?  Then  dame  Fowler  was  let 
into  it  last  night,  for  she  lost  her  best  turkey,  and  she  frets 
about  it  very  much.  It  was  the  one  that  she  intended  to 
send  to  the  Hall  on  Christmas  Day. 


io6  Olla  Podrida 

Agnes.  But  that  is  not  the  secret,  Lucy.  The  real 
secret  is — that  I  wish  to  have  my  fortune  told ;  and 
you  must  contrive  with  me  how  to  manage  it. 

Lucy,  Shall  I  send  the  woman  up  to  the  Hall ;  she  was 
here  yesterday. 

Agnes,  No,  no,  you  stupid  thing.  Lady  Etheridge  hates 
the  very  name  of  a  gipsy.  One  was  at  the  Hall  yesterday, 
and  she  threatened  her  with  Bridewell. 

Lucy.  Well  then,  shall  I  find  out  where  they  are  ?  and 
we  can  go  together, 

Agnes.  That's  exactly  what  I  wish,  Lucy  ;  but  it  must 
be  soon,  as  we  expect  my  brother  and  his  friend  belong- 
ing to  the  same  regiment,  and  I  must  not  be  out  of  the 
way  when  they  arrive. 

Lucy.  Who  is  this  friend  ? 

Agnes.  A  Captain  Mertoun.  (Sighs.)  I  have  seen  him 
before. 

Lucy.  He  is  then  acquainted  with  your  family  ? 

Agnes.  Not  with  my  father  and  mother.  When  I  was  at 
Cheltenham  with  my  aunt,  I  met  him  very  often.  There 
is  a  little  secret  there,  too,  Lucy. 

Lucy.  Another  ? 

Agnes.  Yes,  another.     Don't  you  long  to  hear  it  ? 

Lucy.  (Smiling),    If  you  long  to  tell  it  ? 

Agnes.  How  provoking  you  are !  You  know  I  do. 
Well,  then,  this  Captain  Mertoun  is — a  very  handsome  man. 

Lucy.  Is  that  all  ? 

Agnes.  No ;  but  it's  something  to  the  point,  because 
he  says  he  is  very  much  in  love  with  me. 

Lucy.  I'll  believe  that.     Who  is  not  ? 

Agnes.  Don't  be  silly,  Lucy  ;  but  the  last  part  of  the 
secret  is  the  most  important.  I  think,  Lucy,  that  I  like  him 
— that  is — a  little — a  very  little.  Now,  since  my  father 
has  told  me  he  v/as  coming  down  with  my  brother,  I've 
been  in  a  perfect  fever,  I  don't  know  why — and  so — and 
so — that  is  the  reason  why  I  wish  to  have  my  fortune 
told.  I  know  that  it's  very  silly,  and  all  nonsense ;  but 
still  nonsense  is  very  agreeable  sometimes; 


The  Gipsy  107 

Lucy.  But  you  will  not  believe  a  word  that  you  are 
told. 

Agnes.  No,  not  one  word,  unless  it  happens  to  meet 
with  my  own  wishes  ;  and  then  you  know. — But  I  really 
must  be  gone.  Good-bye,  Lucy.  Remember  our  meeting 
in  the  wood.  \ErAt  Agnes, 

Lucy.  God  bless  thee,  dearest  Agnes ;  yet  would  that 
I  had  never  seen  either  you  or  your  brother  !  What  is 
intended  in  kindness  is,  too  often,  cruelty.  The  kiss  of 
affection  that  is  implanted  on  the  lips,  may  take  so  deep 
a  root,  as  to  entwine  the  heart.  Heigho !  Yv^hat  an 
elegant  young  man  is  Captain  Etheridge !  I  recollect, 
when  we  used  to  romp,  and  quarrel,  and  kiss  ;  then,  I 
had  no  fear  of  him  :  and  now,  if  he  but  speaks  to  me, 
I  tremble,  and  feel  my  face  burn  with  blushes.  Heigho ! 
— this  world  demands  more  philosophy  than  is  usually 
possessed  by  a  girl  of  nineteen. 

Scene  V. 
The  Gipsy  encampment. — Eiiter  Nelly. 

Nelly.  I  have  been  plotting  my  revenge  on  Lady 
Etheridge  ;  and  I  have  a  scheme  which  may  succeed.  I 
must,  hov/cver,  be  guided  by  circumstances  ;  yet,  by 
the  means  of  this  senseless  fool,  I  hope  to  make  much 
mischief.     O,  here  he  comes. 

Enter  Peter. 

Good  day,  again.  I  have  been  waiting  for  you.  The 
stars  are  in  the  ascendant. 

Peter.  I  thought  they  were  up  in  the  sky. 

Nelly.  Exactly.  Now  let  me  read  the  lines  on  your 
face.  The  finest  gentleman  in  the  land  would  give  half 
his  fortune  for  those  lines. 

Peter.  Then  pray,  what  is  my  fortune,  good  woman  ? 

Nelly.  One  that  requires  gold,  with  which  to  cross  my 
hand  ;  and  then  it  would  be  too  cheap. 

Peter.  Gold  I     Won't  a  shilling  do  ? 


io8  Olla  Podrida 

Nelly,  I  wish  you  good-day,  Sir ;  I  thought  you  were  a 
gentleman. 

Peter,  Well,  so  I  am  ;  but  gentlemen  are  not  always 
very  flush  of  guineas.  However,  I  have  one  here,  and 
it  shall  go  for  my  fortune.  \Gives  money. 

Nelly,  The  planet,  Georgium  Sidum,  says,  that  you  are 
the  son  of  the  steward,  and  your  name  is  Bargrove. 

Peter.  Now,  that  is  surprising  ! 

Nelly.  But  Georgium  Sidum  tells  not  the  truth. 

Peter.  Do  the  stars  ever  lie  ? 

Nelly,  O,  the  new  ones  do.  They  have  not  been  long 
in  the  business.     But  the  old  ones  never  fail. 

Peter,  Astonishing!  and  only  supposed  to  be  Bargrove's 
son.  Go  on,  good  woman,  go  on.  "What  do  the  old 
planets  say  ? 

Nelly.  Nay,  I  must  stop  a  little.  That  is  all  I  can  see 
just  now  ;  but  more  will  be  revealed  to  me  by-and-bye. 
What  does  Artemidorus  say  in  his  ninety-ninth  chapter, 
written  in  double  Chaldean  before  letters  were  invented  ? 

Peter.  I  don't  know.     What  does  he  say  ? 

Nelly.  That  you  must  gain  great  truths  by  little  ones. 
So  you  must  tell  me  all  you  know  about  yourself,  and 
I  shall  be  able  to  find  out  more. 

Peter.  I  was  educated  with  Mr  Edward  Etheridge  ;  and, 
when  our  education  was  completed,  he  went  into  the  army 
and  I  was  sent  home  to  my  father's — that  is — to  Mr 
Bargrove's. 

Nelly.  I  understand. 

Peter.  This  Mr  Bargrove  proposed  that  I  should  accom- 
pany him  every  day  to  obtain  a  knowledge  of  agriculture, 
and  employ  my  evenings  in  keeping  the  accounts,  that  I 
might  be  able  to  succeed  him  in  his  office  of  steward. 

Nelly.  Exactly — but  the  stars  tell  me  that  you  did  not 
like  it. 

Peter.  Couldn't  bear  it.  Why,  my  boots,  which  I  am  so 
particular  in  having  well  polished,  were  so  loaded  with 
clay  the  very  first  time,  that  I  could  hardly  lift  my  legs, 
and  I  stumbled  into  a  ditch  filled  with  stinging  nettles  5  so 


The  Gipsy  109 

I  gave  it  up,  and  the  old  gentleman  constantly  swears  that 
I  am  no  son  of  his. 

Nelly.  Did  not  I,  the  priestess  of  the  stars,  tell  you 
so  ? 

Peter.  But  if  I  am  no  son  of  his,  the  question  is, 
"  Whose  son  am  I  ?  " 

Nelly.  A  gentleman's  son,  no  doubt.  But  I  shall  dis- 
cover more  when  I  consult  the  stars  anon.  You  must 
return. 

Peter.  That  I  surely  will.  Consult  the  old  stars,  if  you 
please. 

Nelly.  I  always  do,  sir ;  no  dependence  upon  the  others. 
In  fact,  we've  quarrelled.  I  am  hardly  on  speaking  terms 
with  them. 

Peter.  Speaking  terms  with  the  stars  !  How  intimate 
you  must  be  ! 

Nelly.  You'll  have  to  cross  my  hand  again.  Golden 
truths  will  not  come  out  without  gold. 

Peter.  What !   gold  again  ? 

Nelly.  Yes,  another  guinea.  One  for  telling  you  who 
you  are  not,  and  another  for  telling  you  who  you  are. 
Don't  you  see  ? 

Peter.  One  for  telling  me  who  I  am  not.  Yes,  that's 
told  ;  I  am  not  my  father's  son.  They  say  it's  a  wise  man 
who  knows  his  own  father. 

Nelly.  Wisely  said. 

Peter.  And  another  for  telling  me  who  I  am.  Well,  I 
think  that  is  as  well  worth  a  guinea  as  the  other. 

Nelly.  Better,  I  should  imagine. 

Peter.  Yes,  better.  Well,  good-bye,  good  woman.  I'll 
be  sure  to  be  here. 

Nelly.  Fail  not,  or  you'll  repent  it.  (^Exit  Peter.)  The 
gudgeon  takes  the  bait  kindly.  Peter,  Peter,  you  had 
always  an  immense  swallow.  When  Sally  Stone  nursed 
him,  she  was  forced  to  feed  the  little  cormorant  with  a 
tablespoon.  As  far  as  I  can  see,  notwithstanding  his 
partnership  education  with  the  young  Squire,  I  think  the 
grown  babe   should  be  fed  with   spoon-meat   still.     But 


no  Olla  Podrida 

what  dainty  lasses  are  these  that  come  this  way  ?  Lucy  and 
Miss  Etheridge — how  fortunate  ! 

Enter  Agnes  and  Lucy, 

Lucy.  There  is  the  woman  ;  so,  if  you  are  inclined  to 
hear  her  nonsense,  you  must  wait  the  Sibyl's  pleasure. 

Agnes.  I  hope  she  will  not  keep  us  long,  or  my  brother 
will  arrive  before  we  return.  {Nelly  advances.) 

Nelly.  Save  you,  fair  lady  !  which  of  you  will  first  look 
into  futurity  .? 

Lucy.  This  young  lady.  {Pointing  to  Agnes.) 

Nelly.  Then  you  must  retire  out  of  hearing. 

Agnes.  No,  no  j  I  have  no  secrets  from  her.  She  must 
stay. 

Nelly.  That  cannot  be,  my  art  will  be  useless,  and  I 
decline  the  task. 

Lucy.  Yield  to  her  mummery,  it  can  make  no  difference. 

Agnes.  Well,  then,  Lucy,  don't  go  far  away. 

Lucy.  I'll  be  out  of  hearing,  but  not  out  of  sight. 

\Lucy  retires,  and  amuses  herself  in  collecting  jloivers . 

Nelly.  Your  name  is  Agnes. 

Agnes,  {laughing).  I  know  that ;  and  I  am  the  daughter 
of  Sir  Gilbert  of  the  Hall.  Come,  I'll  help  you,  good 
woman. 

Nelly.  I  did  not  say  the  last. 

Agnes.  What  do  you  mean  1 

Nelly.  I  only  said  that  your  name  was  Agnes. 

Agnes.  Well,  and  I  told  you  more  than  you  knev/. 

Nelly.  The  stars  reveal  not  what  you  assert, 

Agnes.  Well,  then,  I  do  5  so  I  know  more  than  the 
stars. 

Nelly.  You  are  wrong.  You  know  not  so  much.  You 
are  not  what  you  think  you  are. 

Agnes.  In  the  name  of  wonder,  what  do  you  mean  } 

Nelly.  I  have  said  it.  Let  me  see  your  hand.  Your 
fate  is  a  dark  one  !  Poor  young  lady  !  You  will  be 
crossed  in  everything. 


The  Gipsy  iii 

Agnes,  {laughing  faintly).  Love  included,  I  suppose. 
Shall  I  not  marry  the  man  of  my  affections  ? 

Nelly.  If  he  is  more  generous  than  men  usually  are. 

Agnes.  I  cannot  understand  you. 

Nelly.  There  is  a  dark  cloud  hanging  over  your  fate. 
The  storm  will  soon  rage.     Poor  young  lady  ! 

Agnes.  You  almost  frighten  me.  Speak  more  intel- 
ligibly. 

Nelly.  I  have  said  enough.  Agnes  Bargrove,  fare  thee 
well ! 

Agnes,  (astonished).  Agnes  Bargrove !  v>^hat  can  she 
mean  ?     Good  woman,  will  you  not  tell  me  more  ? 

Nelly.  Go  home,  you  will  soon  hear  more  from  others. 
(Aside.)  The  wound  is  given  ;  let  it  fester.     (Nelly  retires.) 

Agnes.  Lucy,  Lucy  !  (Lt/cy  advances.) 

Lucy.  Dear  Agnes,  how  confused  you  are  !  What  can 
be  the  matter? 

Agnes,  (much  jlurried).  I  can  hardly  tell.  The  woman 
was  so  strange.  I  was  a  little  surprised — that's  all. 
(Recovering  herself.)  Now,  Lucy,  it's  your  turn.  (Nelly 
comes  forward.)  There,  good  woman,  is  your  money. 
(Nelly  shakes  her  head,  and  refuses  it.)  How  very  strange  ! 
Come,  Lucy,  let  her  tell  your  fortune,  and  then  we'll 
go  home. 

Lucy.  Nay,  Agnes,  I  have  no  curiosity. 

Agnes.  I  insist  upon  it,  Lucy.  I  will  not  be  the  only 
foolish  one.     I  shall  retire  until  you  call  me. 

Lucy.  Well,  then,  as  you  please.  I  know  my  fortune 
but  too  well.     (Sighs.)  [Agnes  retires. 

Nelly,  (looking  Lucy  earnestly  ht  the  face  for  a  time).  You 
are  perhaps  come  here  for  amusement.  In  olden  times 
there  were  many  false  prophets  ;  but  still,  sDme  of  them 
were  true  \  so,  in  these  days,  there  are  many  who  pretend 
to  our  art,  but  really  few  who  do  possess  it.  Do  you  take 
this  for  a  mocking  matter } 

Lucy.  Why,  really,  good  woman,  I  will  not  promise  to 
believe  all  you  may  say,  but  I  shall  be  glad  to  listen 
to  it. 


1 1 2  Olla  Podrida 

Nelly.  I  thought  as  much.  But  were  I  to  tell  you  what 
is  known  only  to  yourself,  would  you  then  credit  my 
asserted  powers  ? 

Lucy,  I  should  certainly  feel  more  inclined. 

Nelly.  There  are  marks  upon  your  person  known  but 
to  yourself. 

Lucy.  'Tis  very  possible. 

Nelly,  Can  you  recollect  them  ? 

Lucy,  {smiling  incredulously^.  Can  you  describe  them  ? 

Nelly.  To  prove  my  power  before  I  read  your  destiny, 
I  will.  You  have  a  large  mole  beneath  your  right 
shoulder.  {Lucy  starts.)  You  have  a  scar  on  your  instep 
by  falling  over  a  sickle  in  your  infancy.  Nay,  more. 
(Nelly  nvhispers  her.) 

Lucy.  Merciful  heavens  ! 

Nelly.   Are  you  satisfied  ? 

Lucy.  I'm  a  little  frightened. 

Nelly.  So  much  to  prove  that  I  am  no  impostor.  Now, 
let  me  see  your  hand.  {Lucy  holds  out  her  hand  trefubling.) 
You  have  lost  your  fortune,  and  your  rank  in  society — 
but  you  will  soon  regain  them.  The  cloud  is  dispersing 
from  before  the  sun  of  your  happiness.  Sweet  girl,  I 
wish  thee  joy  ! 

Lucy.  What  mean  you  ? 

Nelly.  Others  will  tell  you  soon.  There  are  two  in 
the  secret,  Nelly  Armstrong  and  Martha  Bargrove. 

Lucy.  My  mother  \ 

Nelly.  No,  not  your  mother.  I  said,  Martha  Bargrove^ 
{Lets  go  her  hand.)     Lucy  Etheridge,  fare  thee  well. 

[Exit  Nelly. 

Lucy.  O  God  !   Agnes,  Agnes  !   {Agnes  runs  up  to  her.) 

Agnes.  M)  dear  Lucy,  has  she  frightened  you  too  ? 

Lucy.  O  yes  !  indeed  she  has.  Let  us  go  home.  Miss 
Agnes,  I  am  so  unhappy. 

Agnes.  So  am  I,  Lucy.  I  wish  we  had  never  seen  the 
odious  woman. 

[Exeunt  ambo,  arm  in  arm,  crying.. 


The  Gipsy  113 

Act  II.  Scene  I. 

A  Drawing-room  m  the  Hall, 

Enter  Captain  Etheridge,  Captain  Mertoun,  and  William, 

Will,  Sir  Gilbert  be  within  gunshot,  Captain  Edward, 
and  I'll  make  sail  after  him.  I  think  he  have  the  gardener 
in  tow. 

Capt,  Eth.  You  will  oblige  me,  "William.  How  are 
you,  my  good  fellow  ?  You  look  dull  j  what's  the  news 
here  ? 

Will,  Why,  Mr  Edward,  mortal  bad.  There  be  a 
misfortune  happened  in  the  family  this  morning. 

Capt,  Eth,  Not  to  my  father,  I  trust  ? 

Capt,  Mer,  Not  to  Miss  Etheridge  ? 

Will,  No;    it    be,  Mr  Edward,  that  Sir   Gilbert  have 
given   me  warning,  and   I  have    a   month's  law   to   find 
another  berth. 
{Captain  Etheridge  and  Mertoun  look  at  each  other,  and  laugh.) 

Capt.  Eth.  Well,  William,  I  think  I  can  doctor  that. 

Will,  Fse  afraid  not,  Mr  Edward,  for  the  Admiral  be 
superseded — has  hauled  down  his  flag,  and  I'd  as  soon 
have  my  discharge  as  not.  (^Putting  his  finger  to  his  nose,) 
A  woman  be  at  the  bottom  of  all  mischief. 

Capt.  Eth.  You  observe,  Mertoun,  how  things  are 
managed  here.  Now  if  any  difference  or  dispute  arise 
between  my  father  and  mother,  do  you  immediately 
espouse  the  cause  of  the  lady.  Recollect,  I'll  bear  you 
harmless. 

Capt,  Mer,  I  am  guided  by  you ;  but  I'm  going  to 
observe — 

Enter  Sir  Gilbert. 

Adm,  My  dear  Edward,  welcome  again  to  your  inherit- 
ance ! 

Capt,  Eth,  Thanks,    my   dear    father.      Allow   me    to 
introduce    to   you    my   most    particular    friend.    Captain 
Mertoun,  of  our  regiment, 
o  H 


1 1 4  Olla  Podrida 

Adm,  Sir,  you  have  the  welcome  of  a  father  who  loves 
all  whom  his  children  love. 

Capt.  Mer,  Sir  Gilbert,  I  am  indeed  flattered  by  your 
kind  expressions. 

Enter  Lady  Etheridge. 

Capt,  Eth.  My  dear  mother,  permit  me  to  renew  my 
duty. 

Lady  Eth.  Edward,  I  have  been  a  martyr  to  painful 
anxiety  and  maternal  sentiment ;  but  my  sighs  are  accom- 
plished now  that  I  embrace  my  only  son.  (Turning  to 
Mertoun,  and  curtseying  haughtily.)     Your  friend  ? 

Capt.  Eth.  My  friend  is  Captain  Mertoun,  who  is  most 
anxious  to  pay  his  homage,  and  I  trust  will  find  favour 
in  the  sight  of  Lady  Etheridge. 

Capt.  Mer.  That  were  indeed  anticipating  bliss.  {Bow- 
ing  very  loiv.) 

Lady  Eth.  Captain  Mertoun,  you  may  approximate  our 
kindly  feelings. 

Capt.  Mer.  Lady  Etheridge,  I  duly  appreciate  the  dis- 
tinction. {Aside  to  Etheridge.)  Why  don't  you  ask  after 
your  sister  ? 

Capt.  Eth.  Where  is  my  sister  Agnes,  my  dear  mother  ? 
How  is  it  that  she  is  not  here  to  receive  her  brother  ? 

Lady  Eth.  Indeed,  Edward,  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that, 
forgetful  of  her  aristocratic  birth,  she  has  permitted  herself 
to  be  seduced  by  bad  company. 

Adm.  {aside).  Whew  !  now  for  a  breeze  ! 

Capt.  Eth.  Bad  company.  Did  I  hear  rightly  ?  Surely, 
my  lady 

Lady  Eth.  I  have  said  it,  Edward ;  and  I  am  sorry  to 
add,  that  the  admiral  eggs  her  on.  O  pardon.  Captain 
Mertoun,  the  plebeian  slip  of  the  tongue  !  I  mean  to  say 
corroborates  the  mesalliance. 

Capt.  Mer.  {aside  to  Etheridge.)  For  Heaven's  sake,  ask 
her  to  explain. 

Capt.  Eth.  What  would  you  infer,  my  lady  ?  Surely 
my  sister  cannot  so  far  forget  herself,  much  less  my  father 
approve  of  such  conduct. 


The  Gipsy  115 

Adm.  Edward,  this  bad  company  is — Lucy  Bargrove. 

Lady  Eth,  Yes,  Sir  Gilbert,  I  am  sorry  to  retort  before 
strangers  ;  but  just  as  you  have  confessed,  it  is  even  so. 
My  daughter  has  formed  an  unequal  connection,  and, 
and  dissipates  her  rank  among  unequal  associates. 

Capt.  Eth.  I  am  truly  glad  that  it  is  no  worse,  my  lady. 

Lady  Eth.  What  can  be  worse,  sir  ?  Rank  is  rank  ; 
but  your  father  has  absorbed  notions  which  disgrace  his 
baronetage. 

Adm.  Lady  Etheridge,  if  I  never  disgrace  my  title  by 
any  other  act,  I  shall  be  proud  of  the  manner  in  which 
I  have  supported  it,  {Aside.^  I  won't  give  up  this  point 
if  I  can  help  it. 

Lady  Eth.  You  hear,  Edward — I  am  quite  cagged — I 
am  ail  confusion — stigmatised,  I  mean,  by  his  conduct. 
His  infatuation  is  quite  adulterous  ! 

Capt.  Eth.  (aside).  Now,  Mertoun,  coincide  with  her. 
Never  mind  me  or  my  father. 

Lady  Eth.  Did  you  speak.  Captain  Mertoun  ? 

Capt.  Mer.  I  did,  my  lady,  but  venture  to  express  to 
Captain  Etheridge  my  admiration  of  the  elegance  and 
elevation  of  your  sentiments. 

Adm.  (aside).  What  the  devil  does  he  interfere  for  ? 
confounded  puppy. 

Lady  Eth.  Captain  Mertoun,  I  conceive  at  once  that  you 
are  of  Oh  tone.  I  am  sorry  that  family  squabbles — pardon 
the  low  word — Captain  Mertoun,  we  cannot  touch  pitch 
without  being  defiled — (looking  at  Sir  Gilbert.) 

Adm.  Sorry  you  ever  meddled  with  a  tar. 

Lady  Eth.  I  am  grieved,  Captain  Mertoun,  that  domestic 
fractions  should  be  promulgated  on  our  first  meeting,  and 
feel  much  prepossession  for  your  corroboration  of  the 
Admiral's  folly. 

Capt.  Mer.  I  cannot  but  assert  that  his  conduct  is  most 

indefensible.     Sir  Gilbert,  allow  me  to  take  the  privilege 

of  an  early  friend,  and  to  express  my  regret  at  your  in- 

1  fatuation,  and  my  hope  that  you  will  be  swayed  by  superior 

i  judgment. 


Ii6  Olla  Podrida 

Adm.  Sir,  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  friendly 
and  polite  interference.  Does  your  friend  stay  dinner, 
Edward  ? 

Lady  Eth,  Admiral,  assuredly.  I  trust  that  Captain 
Mertoun  will  do  us  the  honour  of  taking  many  dinners 
with  us.  At  present.  Captain  Mertoun,  you  will  excuse 
me ;  but  when  you  are  at  leisure,  I  do  not  say  that  I  will 
show  you  the  grounds,  as  Sir  Gilbert  would  have  ex- 
pressed himself  5  but  I  shall,  as  we  of  the  Oh  tone  say, 
be  most  happy  to  be  your  cicero.  \EMt  Lady  Etheridge. 

Adm.  (angrily  to  Captain  Mertoun.)  And  pray,  sir,  what 
do  you  mean  by  offering  your  opinion  so  confounded 
freely,  and  disapproving  of  my  conduct  ? 

Capt.  Eth.  My  dear  father,  you  must  blame  me,  and 
not  him.  Let  us  retire  to  your  library,  and  I  will  explain 
everything.  You  will  find  that  Captain  Mertoun  has  no 
other  object  in  view  than  the  happiness  of  all  parties. 

Adm,  Then  I  can  tell  Captain  Mertoun,  that  interfering 
between  man  and  wife  is  not  the  way  to  secure  his  own. 

Capt.  Mer.  Your  son  will  soon  offer  a  satisfactory 
explanation.  It  is  most  true  that  the  liberty  I  have  taken 
with  you  is  most  essential  to  my  happiness. 

Adm.  {going  up  and  lifting  his  cane).  The  devil  it  is ! 
but  not  to  all  parties.  Captain  Mertoun;  and  I  am  sorry 
to  say  this  to  any  friend  of  my  son's — but  you  are  a  d — d 
impudent  puppy,  and  I  expect  satisfaction. 

Capt.  Eth.  That  you  shall  have,  sir,  from  me,  who 
requested  Captain  Mertoun  to  follow  that  line  of  conduct. 
Do  me  the  favour  to  retire  to  the  library. 

Adm.  You  requested  him  to  insult  your  father  ?  I  am 
not  so  old  as  to  be  insulted  with  impunity ;  and  I  hope, 
as  you  are  a  party,  that  the  explanation  will  be  satisfactory. 
{Walks  about  in  a  rage.)  Captain  Mertoun,  you'll  excuse 
us.  There  are  the  grounds,  and  as  you  have  been  so 
very  assiduous  to  fall  out  with  me,  you  may  be  equally  so- 
to  fall  in  with  Lady  Etheridge.  (Bowing  in  derision  very 
low,  then  exit,  attended  by  Captain  Etheridge.) 

Capt.  Mer.  Well,  this  is  excellent,  that  a  man,  who  is- 


The  Gipsy  117 

henpecked  till  he  has  not  a  decent  feather  left,  should  be 
jealous  about  such  a  woman.  But  I  feel  assured  that 
Etheridge  will  make  all  right.  I  shall  take  the  advice  of 
the  old  gentleman,  and  walk  about  the  grounds,  perhaps, 
as  he  says,  I  may  fall  in  with  Lady  Etheridge  and  improve 
my  acquaintance.  [Exit, 

Scene  II. 
The  Gipsy  encampment  in  the  wood, 

Nelly  comes  fornvard, 

Nelly.  Lady  Etheridge,  you  spurned  me  !  you  chased  me 
from  your  doors  !  what  I  shall  humanity  in  any  shape  be 
worried  by  your  pampered  dogs  ?  when  youth  was  fresh 
upon  our  brows,  our  steps  light  upon  the  green,  and  our 
hearts  still  more  light  with  innocence,  had  then  the  Lady 
Etheridge  more  admirers  than  the  poor  outcast  gipsy, 
Nelly  Armstrong  ?  Have  you  forgotten  your  origin, 
proud  lady  of  the  Hall  ?  Had  his  partial  eyes  fallen  upon 
me  when  Sir  Gilbert  chose  his  wife  from  among  the 
cottage  maidens,  and  you,  proud  lady,  had  come  hungry 
and  in  rags  to  my  door,  should  I  have  unslipped  the 
hounds  upon  your  cry  for  charity  ?  No,  no,  no !  You 
have  given  insult — expect  retaliation.  But  here  comes 
one  of  my  instruments.  Unbend,  Eleanor  Armstrong, 
from  this  lofty  carriage,  and  be  again  the  miserable — the 
cheating  gipsy. 

Enter  young  Bargrove. 

Nelly.  A  fine  morning,  most  fortunate  sir. 

Peter.  Well,  my  good  woman,  have  you  found  it  out  ? 

Nelly.  What,  youth  of  a  brilliant  horoscope,  do  you 
mean  the  starlit  mystery  ?  It  is  revealed,  but  the  planets 
have  been  very  cross.  I  watched — and  watched — and 
watched — 

Peter.  Well,  and  what  did  you  discover  ? 

Nelly.  The  discovery,  sir,  is  precious.  Golden,  sir, 
golden  !  A  guinea  !  it  is  worth  twenty  ! 


ii8  Olla  Podrida 

Peter,  A  bargain's  a  bargain.  There's  your  guinea 
(Takes  out  his  purse  and  gives  money,)  And  now,  let  me 
have  my  value  for  it. 

Nelly,  I  cast  a  trine  through  the  rays  of  Saturn,  and 
placing  a  quadrature  upon  his  seventh  house,  I  travelled 
wearily  through  the  heavens ;  and,  at  last,  this  afternoon, 
at  about  thirty-five  minutes,  forty-nine  seconds,  after  the 
hour  of  tJiree,  I  discovered  that  your  mother  was  wet  nurse 
to  both  Sir  Gilbert's  children. 

Peter,  Miraculous  !  and  so  indeed  she  was  ! 

Nelly.  You  were  born  at  nearly  the  same  time  as  Captain 
Etheridge,  and  was  put  out  to  nurse  to  one  Sally  Stone, 
I  discovered  all  about  this  nursing  and  suckling  in  the 
milky  way. 

Peter.  Did  the  stars  there  tell  you  all  this  ?  wonderful ! 

Nelly.  Yes,  and  a  great  deal  more.  But  first  promise 
me,  if  your  fate  is  no  sordid  one,  you  will  not  yourself  be 
sordid ;  for  now  comes  the  great  secret.  Money,  sir, 
money  for  the  prophetess.  Suppose,  now,  I  should  prove 
you  a  gentleman  of  ten  thousand  a  year  ;  what  would  you 
give  me  then  ? 

Peter.  Give  you  !  another  guinea — perhaps  two.  {Hold- 
ing up  his  purse.)  Ten  thousand  a  year  !  I  would  give  you 
the  whole  purse. 

Nelly,  {laying  hold  of  one  end  of  the  purse.)  Then  listen  to 
me — you  were  changed  at  nurse.  You  are  the  son  of  Sir 
Gilbert  Etheridge  of  the  Hall ! 

Peter,  The  son  of  Sir  Gilbert  Etheridge  !  and  changed 
by  the  nurse  ! 

Nelly,  Why  don't  you  clasp  your  hands,  turn  up  your 
eyes,  and  thank  the  stars,  that  have  gained  for  you  your 
patrimony  ? 

Peter,  So  I  will  {Clasps  his  hands,  and  lets  the  purse  go, 
Nelly  pockets  it,)     But  what  nurse  changed  me  ? 

Nelly,  Why,  Mrs  Bargrove  to  be  sure,  who  nursed  you, 
and  put  her  own  son  in  your  place. 

Peter,  Infamous  old  woman  !  but  how  is  this  possible  ? 

Nelly,  The  stars  have  said  it. 


The  Gipsy  119 

Peter.  My  stars  ? 

Nelly.  Yes,  yours. 

Peter.  But  how  am  I  to  prove  this  ? 

Nelly.  There  again  I  can  assist  you.  Did  you  never  hear 
of  a  girl  called  Nelly  Armstrong  ? 

Peter,  To  be  sure — she  nursed  my  sister,  that  is,  she 
nursed  Lucy  Bargrove.     A  sad  reprobate  was  Nelly 

Nelly.  Reprobate  in  your  teeth,  young  man  !  Speak  of 
that  person  with  the  utmost  respect ;  for  'tis  she  that  will 
appear  and  divulge  the  whole.  She  was  the  accomplice  of 
Mrs  Bargrove  ;  but  you  must  lose  no  time  ;  challenge  Mrs 
Bargrove,  and  she  may  confess  all.  Then  hasten  to  Lady 
Etheridge,  and  flinging  yourself  into  her  arms,  sob  out 
upon  her  bosom  that  she  is  your  mother. 

Peter.  Excellent !  it  will  be  quite  moving.  I  think  a 
white  handkerchief  looks  most  interesting. 

Nelly.  I  hope,  when  your  honour  comes  to  your  pro- 
perty, you  won't  forget  the  gipsy  woman. 

Peter.  Forget  you,  good  woman  !  no,  that  I  won't.  You 
shall  have  a  right  of  encampment  here,  and  permission  to 
rob  any  tenants  upon  the  estate.     Leave  me. 

[Exit  Nelly,  curtseying  several  times  to  the  ground. 

Peter  solus  (strutting  up  and  down).  Well,  I  knew  that  I 
was  a  gentleman'  born,  I  knew  I  was  {rubbing  his  hands). 
Why,  what  a  shameful  trick  of  the  old  woman.  But  I'll 
make  her  confess  directly.  And  then — and  then — I'll 
pardon  her ;  for  she  has  been  very  kind  to  me,  that's 
certain.  Sir  Peter  Etheridge  with  ten  thousand  a  year  ! 
O  !  it  will  sound  well.  ''  Pray,"  says  the  traveller  from 
London  to  one  of  my  tenants,  **  whose  superb  mansion  is 
that .?  "  **  Sir  Peter's."  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  "  And  that  fine 
equipage  ,?  "  *'  Sir  Peter's."  He  !  he  !  he  !  *'  And  that 
beautiful  lady  all  over  jewels  ?  "  **  Sir  Peter's."  Ho  ! 
ho  !  ho  !  Lucky,  lucky  Sir  Peter  !  Hum  !  ha  !  I'll  turn 
old  Bargrove  off  for  his  impudence — that's  decided  ;  and  I 
must  cease  to  be  cheerful  and  familiar.  Melancholy — 
melancholy  is  your  only  gentlemanlike  bearing,  as  Shake- 
speare says.  [Exit 


120  011a  Podrida 

Scene  HI. 

A  room  in  the  Hall. 

Enter  Agnes,  with  her  bonnet  in  her  hand.     She  sits  down, 
musing. 

Agnes.  I  never  was  so  unhappy  before  ;  for  that  gipsy 
woman  has  raised  doubts  and  fears  which  overwhelm  me. 
Lucy,  too,  has  been  told  something  that  affects  her  deeply. 
She  never  spoke  during  the  whole  way  home,  and  seemed 
glad  to  get  rid  of  me  as  she  ran  into  her  father's  house. 
If  this  should  be  true  (and  why  raise  such  a  report  without 
foundation  ?  no  one  could  be  so  wicked),  what  a  discovery. 
At  all  events,  until  the  truth  be  ascertained,  I  shall  be 
miserable.  Heigho  !  I  anticipated  so  much  pleasure  in 
meeting  my  brother  and  Captain  Mertoun.     Now,  what  am 

I    to    do  .?     If  he    were    to — to — offer    to (cries).     It 

would  be  so  unhandsome,  knowing  this  report,  to  say 
**  Yes  "  (j-^^j-),  and  so  unkind  to  say  "  No  !  "  O  dear  !  I'm 
very  miserable. 

Enter  Sir  Gilbert. 

Adm.  Why,  Agnes,  the  servants  have  been  out  every- 
where seeking  you.  For  shame  !  to  be  out  of  the  way 
when  you  know  that  your  brother  was  coming.  Edward 
is  much  hurt  at  your  indifference.  Why,  what's  the 
matter,  child  ?  You  appear  to  have  been  crying  !  My 
dear  girl,  what  has  vexed  you  ?  See,  here  they  both 
come. 

Enter  Captain  Etheridge  and  Mertoun. 

Capt.  Eth.  My  dear  Agnes  !  {Agnes  runs  up  to  him, 
embraces  him,  and  then  bursts  into  tears).  Why,  what  is  the 
matter,  my  dear  sister  ? 

Agnes  (hanging  on  her  brother's  neck).  O  !  I  am  so 
rejoiced  to  see  you  ! 

Capt.  Eth.  (hisses  her).  You  look  the  personification  of 
joy  '     But,  Agnes,  here  is  one  whom  you  have  met  before. 


The  Gipsy  121 

Is  it  necessary  to  introduce  Mertoun  ?  {Capain  Mertoun  ad- 
vances^ 

Agnes.  O  no  !  {curtseying  formally  to  Captain  Mertoun,  ivho 
offers  his  hand.) 

Capt.  Mer,  (confused ,  and  apart  to  Captain  Ether idge). 
Good  heavens  !  I  must  have  displeased  her  ! 

Capt.  Eth.  (aside).  Impossible.     I  do  not  comprehend  it. 

Capt.  Mer.  I  am  most  happy  to  renew  our  acquaintance, 
Miss  Etheridge,  under  the  sanction  of  your  parents'  roof. 

Agnes  (inclining  her  head).  I  shall  always  be  most  happy 
to  receive  my  brother's  friends. 

Adm.  Agnes,  my  love,  the  heat  has  overpowered  you. 
You  have  hastened  home  too  fast.  Come  out  with  me. 
You'll  be  better  soon.  [Exeunt  Sir  Gilbert  and  Agnes. 

Capt.  Eth.  What  can  it  be  ?     She  is  certainly  distressed. 

Capt.  Mer.  Her  reception  of  me  is,  indeed,  very  different 
from  what  I  had  anticipated  from  the  manner  in  which  we 
parted.  I  must  say,  that  either  her  conduct  is  very  incon- 
sistent, or  her  memory  very  treacherous. 

Capt.  Eth.  Nay,  Mertoun,  it  is  some  time  since  you  met ; 
and  then,  not  under  the  auspices  of  her  father's  roof.  Make 
some  allowances  for  maidenly  reserve. 

Capt.  Mer,  Still  I  must  say  I  am  both  mortified  and 
disappointed. 

Capt.  Eth.  I  can  feel  for  you  ;  but  knowing  her  generous 
character,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  take  up  her  defence.  Some- 
thing presses  heavily  on  her  mind  ;  what,  I  cannot  surmise. 
But  I  will  see  her  and  find  it  out.  Till  then,  wear  your 
willow  as  gracefully  as  you  do  your  laurels,  and  construe 
nothing  to  your  disadvantage.     This  I  ask  in  justice. 

Capt.  Mer.  You  may  with  confidence. 

Capt.  Eth.  But  here  comes  Lady  Etheridge  •,  now  will  I 
hasten  to  Agnes,  and  leave  you  to  pay  your  court.  Though 
you  have  already  made  a  sufficiently  favourable  impression, 
yet  still  remember  my  injunctions. 

Enter  Lady  Etheridge, 
Lady  Etheridge,  my  sister  has  just  quitted  the  room  far 


122  Olla  Podrida 

from  well.     If  you  will  permit  me,  I  will  inquire  after  her, 
leaving  Captain  Mertoun  to  cultivate  your  acquaintance. 

[Exit  Capt.  Etheridge. 

Capt,  Mer.  An  honour,  madam,  I  have  long  courted. 

Lady  Eth.  O  sir  !  if  your  leisure  is  now,  as  it  were, 
unoccupied,  I  should  be  most  happy  to  be  your  cicero. 
There  are  such  grounds 

Capt.  Mer.  {ogling  Lady  Etheridge),  For  admiration, 
when  I  cast  my  eyes  that  way. 

Lady  Eth.  The  quintessence  of  politeness,  I  declare. 
This  way,  sir. 

Capt,  Mer,  The  arm  of  the  humblest   of  your  slaves. 
{Offering  his  arm.) 

Lady  Eth,  Infinitely  honoured. 

[Exeunt  ambo,  ceremoniously,  and  mutually  complimenting 
each  other  in  dumb  show. 


Scene  IF, 

A  Drawing-Room  at  the  Hall, 
Enter  Sir  Gilbert  and  Captain  Etheridge, 

Capt,  Eth,  Well,  my  dear  father,  where  is  Agnes  } 

Adm.  She  has  been  here  just  now ;  she  appears  to  be 
much  distressed  about  something.     She  will  return  directly. 

Capt.  Eth,  What  can  have  annoyed  her  ? 

Adrn.  That  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  my  Lady  Etheridge. 
She  wishes  her  to  break  off  with  Lucy  Bargrove,  but  that 
I  will  resist — that  is — that  is — as  much  as  I  can. 

Capt,  Eth,  My  dear  father,  why  do  you  submit  to  such 
tyranny  ?  You,  that  have  led  fleets  to  victory,  to  be 
governed  by  a  woman !  A  little  firmness  on  your  part 
would  soon  relieve  you  from  your  thraldom,  and  bring  my 
mother  to  a  proper  sense  of  her  duties. 

Adm,  {shaking  his  head).     Too  late — too  late,  Edward. 

Capt,  Eth.  Never  too  late,  sir.    Take  courage  for  once. 


The  Gipsy  123 

and  I'll  answer  for  the  success.  With  all  respect  to  my 
mother,  bullies  are  always  cowards. 

Adm,  Why,  really,  Edward,  your  advice  is  good ;  and, 
as  I  must  always  keep  up  a  running  fight,  I  don't  see  why 
we  shouldn't  have  a  general  action. 

Capt.  Eth.  Bravo,  sir,  a  decisive  engagement  to  your 
honour,  if  you  only  bring  decision  into  play.  I  agree  with 
you,  in  respect  to  Lucy  Bargrove,  heartily. 

Adm,  Edward,  this  girl  has  been  so  long  with  me,  and 
has  so  entwined  herself  about  my  heart,  that  I  cannot  bear 
that  she  should  be  used  ill.  Your  sister  is  fond  of  her,  and 
I  dote  upon  her. 

Capt.  Eth.  Why,  yes,  sir,  I  acknowledge  that  she  is  a 
nice  girl,  but  still,  there  is  a  line  to  be  drawn.  You  would 
not,  for  instance,  like  to  see  her  my  wife. 

Adm.  Indeed  but  I  would,  Edward,  for  your  own  sake. 
You  would  have  a  fair  prospect  of  matrimonial  bliss. 
Talking  about  marriage,  Edward,  I  again  repeat,  if,  as  you 
say,  the  happiness  of  Agnes  depends  upon  her  union  with 
Mertoun,  from  the  character  you  have  given  him,  I  shall 
raise  no  objections ;  but,  as  I  do  think  in  the  disposal  of 
her  children,  the  mother  has  some  claim  to  be  consulted,  I 
suppose  he  must  be  permitted  to  follow  up  your  plan, 
rather  a  novel  one,  of  bearding  the  father  to  gain  the 
daughter. 

Capt.  Eth.  You  forget,  sir,  that  you  are  to  have  a 
general  action,  and  then  it  will  be  no  longer  necessary. 

Enter  Captain  Mertoun, 

Here  comes  Mertoun. 

Adm.  True,  true,  I  forgot  that.  Well  Captain  Mertoun, 
I  hope  you  have  found  amusement. 

Capt.  Eth.  I  have,  sir,  been  walking  with  my  lady,  who 
has  just  gone  into  her  room  to  take  off  her  bonnet. 

Enter  Lady  Etheridge  and  Agnes, 

Lady  Eth.  I  am  quite  exhausted  with  my  pedestrian 
performance.     {Captain   Mertoun  hands  a   chair,  she   sits^ 


124  Olla  Podrida 

Sir  Gilbert,  I  am  sorry  to  request  that  you  will  reprove 
your  daughter  for  disobedience,  for,  notwithstanding  my 
command  of  this  morning,  I  find  that  she  has  agian  visited 
Lucy  Bargrove.  You  say  that  you  have  no  objection,  but 
I  tell  you  it  shall  not  be,  so  there  is  an  end  of  the  matter, 
and  of  the  discussion ;  and  I  insist  upon  it.  Admiral,  I 
insist  that  you  give  her  a  proper  lecture  in  my  presence. 
Now,  Sir  Gilbert. 

Capt,  Eth.  (aside).  Now,  sir,  this  is  your  time,  we'll 
support  you. 

Adm.  My  dear  Lucy  is  concerned — I  don't  feel  that  I 
want  any  support.  Agnes,  your  mother  has  expressed 
her  disapprobation  at  your  visit  to  Lucy  Bargrove. 

Agnes,  My  dear  father  ! 

Adm,  And  I  don't  agree  with  your  mother. 

Lady  Eth,  Sir  Gilbert ! 

Adm,  I  consider  Lucy  Bargrove  a  very  amiable,  good 
girl.  I  am  partial  to  her,  and  have  no  objection  to  your 
visiting  her  whenever  you  please. 

Lady  Eth,  (more  loudly).  Sir  Gilbert ! 

Capt,  Eth.  (aside).  Excellent,  Sir  Gilbert. 

Adm.  I  repeat  again,  Agnes,  that  so  far  from  agreeing 
with,  I  totally  disagree  with  Lady,  and,  in  this  matter,  I 
will  not  allow  her  to  interfere  in  future.  I  intend  to  be 
master  of  my  own  house  ! 

Lady  Eth.  (screaming).  Sir  Gilbert !  !  ! 

Capt.  Eth.  (aside).  The  day's  our  own. 

Adm.  (angrily).  Yes,  my  lady,  master  of  my  own  house ! 
and  expect  humility  and  submission  on  your  part. 
(Softening.)  Although  I  never  shall  forget  that  I  have 
advanced  you  to  the  dignity  of  Lady  Etheridge. 

Lady  Eth.  Captain  Mertoun  !  Captain  Mertoun !  Oh ! 
Oh  !  will  nobody  assist  me  ?  Oh !  lead  me  to  my  room. 

Adm.  Edward,  help  your  mother  to  her  room,  Captain 
Mertoun   will   assist   you.  [Exeunt   Lady    Etheridge, 

Captains  Mertoun  and  Etheridge. 
Manent,  Sir  Gilbert  and  Agnes. 

Adm.  I  have,  my  dear  Agnes,  as  you  perceive,  made  a 


The  Gipsy  125 

resolution  to  be  no  longer  second  in  my  own  house,  but 
your  good  sense  will  point  out  to  you,  that  your  mother 
deserves  your  respect. 

Agnes.  My  dear  father,  I  have  never  believed  otherwise  ; 
but  still  I  must  rejoice  at  what  has  taken  place,  as  I  am 
convinced  it  is  for  her  happiness,  as  well  as  for  your  own. 

Adm.  Come,  dear,  let  us  take  a  walk;  I  feel  rather 
excited.  No  wonder,  this  being  firm  is  one  of  the  most 
unsteady  feelings  imaginable,  for  I  have  no  sooner  come  to 
a  resolution  of  making  a  stand,  than  I  find  my  head 
running  round  consumedly.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  V, 
A  parlour  in  the  homestead.     Enter  Dame  Bar  grove. 

Mrs  Bar.  Well,  I  wonder  whether  Mr  Bargrove  intends 
to  come  home  to-day.  I  never  knew  a  man  work  so  hard 
for  his  employer.  He  is  an  honest  man,  I  will  say  that, 
and  there  are  not  many  wives  who  are  in  their  husband's 
secrets  can  say  the  same.  Aye,  and  he's  no  poor  man 
either.  His  own  property  to  nurse,  and  twenty  years' 
service  with  a  liberal  master  have  made  him  independent, 
and  our  boy  and  girl  will  be  none  the  worse  for  it.  Well, 
it  has  been  fairly  and  honourably  earned,  and  there  are  few 
who  can  count  so  much  and  say  the  same.  I  wish  Peter 
were  not  so  idle  and  thoughtless.  It  frets  his  father  very 
much.  Here  he  comes,  and  I'll  try  if  I  can't  reason  with 
him. 

Enter  Peter  Bargrove  with  great  consequence. 

Mrs  Bar.  Well,  Peter,  have  you  seen  your  father  ? 

Peter.  I  have  not  yet  communicated  the  important 
intelligence. 

Mrs  Bar.  Why,  what's  the  matter  with  the  boy  ? 
important  intelligence  ! 

Peter.  I  had  forgot.  She  is  still  unaware  of  my 
discovery.  Hem  !  {walking  up  to  his  mother.)  good  woman  ! 
look  me  full  in  the  face. 


126  Olla  Podrida 

Mrs  Bar.  Good  woman !  Mercy  on  us,  Peter  !  Is  it 
thus  you  address  your  mother  ? 

Peter.  My  mother  !  I  tell  you  to  look  in  my  face. 

Mrs  Bar,  Look  in  your  face  ?  Well,  sir,  I  do  look  in 
your  face;  and  a  very  foolish  face  you're  making  of  it. 
Are  you  mad  ? 

Peter.  Mad !  no,  Mrs  Bargrove,  I'm  not  mad,  but  I've 
discovered  all. 

Mrs  Bar.  All ! 

Peter.  Yes,  all.     Down  on  your  knees  and  confess. 

Mrs  Bar.  Confess  !  confess  what  ?  Down  on  my  knees 
too  ?     Why,  you  ungracious  boy,  what  do  you  mean  ? 

Enter  Mr  Bargrove,  unperceived,  ijuho  stands  aside. 

Peter.  What  do  I  mean  }  Confess  your  enormous  guilt 
— the  wicked  trick  that  you  played  me  in  my  infancy. 

Mrs  Bar.  Dear  me,  dear  me,  my  child  is  out  of  his 
senses. 

Peter.  Madam,  I  am  in  my  senses,  but  I  am  not  your 
child.     Woman,  you  know  it. 

Mrs  Bar.  (weeping).  O  dear,  O  dear  ! 

Peter.  Tell  me,  will  you  confess  at  once,  thou  in- 
famous  

[Old  Bargrove  comes  forward,  and  knocks  Peter  down  witk 
his  cudgel. 

Old  Bar.  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  What  do  you 
mean,  you  rascal,  by  calling  your  mother  infamous  ? 

Peter  (rubbing  his  head,  and  getting  up  slowly),  'Tis  well 
— 'tis  very  well  I  had  resolved  before  to  turn  you  away ; 
now  you  may  expect  the  severest  chastisement.  Take 
warning  this  moment,  you  old 

Old  Bar.  (lifting  up  his  cudgel).  You  old  what  ? 

Peter.  I'll  swear  the  peace  against  you.  Take  care  what 
you  are  about.  This  is  a  violent  assault,  you  know  j  and 
you  don't  know  him  you  are  beating. 

Old  Bar.  Don't  I  ? 

Peter.  No,  you  don't — but  I'll  tell  you.     This  woman 


The  Gipsy  127 

changed  me  at  nurse,  and  I  can  prove  it.  I — yes — I, 
humble  as  I  stand  here,  with  my  head  broken  also — am  no 
less  than  Peter  Etheridge — the  young  Squire  ! 

Old  Bar.  Look  at  the  almanac,  dame.  Is  the  harvest 
moon  at  full  ?     He's  mad,  indeed  ! 

Peter,  I  am  not.  Mrs  Bargrove,  where  is  your  accom- 
plice, Nelly  Armstrong  ?  You  see  I  know  all.  {Mrs 
Bargrove  weeps,  but  makes  no  answer,)  I  say  again  confess 
all,  and  then,  perhaps,  I  may  pardon  you,  and  let  your 
husband  keep  his  place. 

Old  Bar,  Keep  my  place,  and  so  you  are  Peter  Etheridge, 
are  you  ? 

Peter,  I  am,  and  she  knows  it  well. 

Old  Bar,  Well,  but  I  don't.  I  only  know  you  as  my 
foolish  son,  Peter  Bargrove,  and  so  long  as  you  are  so 
supposed  to  be,  I  shall  not  permit  you  to  insult  your 
mother.  So,  Mr  Peter,  I'll  just  take  the  liberty  of  giving 
you  a  little  wholesome  chastisement,  which  I  hope  may 
prove  beneficial. 

[Old  Bargrove  beats  Peter  round  the  room,  while  Mrs 
Bargrove  tries  to  prevent  him, 

Peter.  I'll  tell  my  mother,  Lady  Etheridge !  that  I  will. 
I'll  go  directly. 

\jPeter  runs  off,     Mr  and  Mrs  Bargrove  sit  down, 
Mrs  Bargrove  sobbing. 

Old  Bar.  {panting).  The  scoundrel  ! 

Enter  Lucy,  in  her  bonnet,  from  walking, 

Lucy,  Good  Heavens,  father,  what  was  all  that  noise  ? 
Mother,  why,  what  is  the  matter  ? 

Lid  Bar,  Matter  enough ;  here's  your  brother  Peter 
gone  out  of  his  senses.  But  I  have  rubbed  him  well  down 
with  this  cudgel. 

Mrs  Bar.  {cryitig).  He's  mad,  Lucy,  quite  mad  !  Called 
me  an  infamous  old  woman,  and  said  that  I  changed  him  at 
nurse.     He  will  have  it,  that  he  is  Peter  Etheridge. 


128  Olla  Podrida 

Lucy  (confounded).  Good  heavens  !  how  strange  !  (Aside) 
I  hardly  know  what  to  think.  That  gipsy's  knowledge — 
and  now  my  brother — where  could  he  have  obtained 
similar  information  ? — yet  it  cannot  be,  she  is  too  good  a 
woman. 

Old  Bar.  What  do  you  say,  Lucy  ? 

Lucy.  Nothing,  father. 

Old  Bar.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  conduct  ? 

Lucy.  He  must  have  been  told  so,  or  he  never  would 
have  been  so  violent. 

Old  Bar.  So  violent !  who  could  have  told  him  such  a 
falsehood  ?  or  who  would  have  believed  it  for  a  moment, 
but  a  fool  like  him  ? 

Mrs  Bar.  How  could  he  have  known  anything  about 
Nelly  Armstrong  ? 

Lucy.  Nelly  Armstrong  !     Did  he  mention  her  name  ? 

Mrs  Bar.  Yes ;  he  asked  me  where  she  was,  and  says, 
that  she  was  my  accomplice. 

[Lucy  remains  in  thought. 

Old  Bar.  Lucy,  why  don't  you  comfort  your  mother? 
One  would  think  you  were  leagued  with  Peter. 

Lucy.  I,  father ! 

Old  Bar.  Yes,  you — you  are  not  yourself.  Pray  have 
you  heard  anything  of  this  before  ?  (Lucy  silent.)  Answer 
me,  girl,  I  say,  have  you  before  heard  anything  of  this  ? 

Lucy.  I  have. 

Old  Bar.  And  pray  from  whom  ? 

Lucy.  From  a  strange  quarter,  and  most  strangely  told. 
I  am  not  well,  father.  [Lucy  bursts  into  tears,  and  Exit. 

Old  Bar.  (after  a  pause,  looking  his  wife  earnestly  in  the 
face).  Why,  Dame  Bargrove,  how  is  this  ?  Lucy  is  not 
a  fool,  and  she  is  evidently  of  the  same  opinion  as  Peter. 
(Walks  up  and  down  the  room,  and  betrays  much  agitation.) 
Dame,  dame,  if,  for  foolish  love  of  thine  own  children, 
and  I  see  that  thou  lovest  the  other  two,  as  well,  if  not 
better  than,   these — if,  I  say,  thou  hast  done  this  great 


The  Gipsy  129 

wrong,  down  on  thy  knees,  and   confess  it !     Guilt  can 
never  prosper,  and  reparation  must  be  made. 

Airs  Bar.  (throiving  herself  ofi  her  knees  before  her  husband^ 
On  my  knees,  husband,  I  swear  to  you,  before  God,  that 
these  children,  Peter  and  Lucy,  were  born  to  me,  and 
are  the  fruits  of  our  marriage.  May  I  never  prosper  in 
this  world,  and  lose  all  hope  of  mercy  in  the  next,  if  I 
speak  not  now  the  truth. 

Old  Bar.  (taking  up  his  wife  and  kissing  her^.  I  do 
believe  thee,  dame,  thou  hast  ever  been  honest ;  but  there 
is  mischief  brewing,  and  we  must  find  out  who  are  the 
authors  of  this  report.  Come,  cheer  up !  All  will  be 
discovered,  and  all  will  be  well. 

[JExeunt  ambo  ;  Old  Bar  grove  leading  off  and  caressing 
Mrs  Bargrove. 


Act  Ill.Scene  I. 
A  wood. — Enter  Bill  and  Dick. 

Dick.  Well,  Bill,  what  do  ye  say  to  it — will  it  do  ? 

Bill.  Can't  tell — been  thinking  on  it  all  night.  Don't 
much  like  the  consarn.     There  be  too  many  on  'en. 

Dick.  Yes,  and  there  be  a  mortal  lot  of  plate.  Bill,  ail 
kept  in  the  butler's  pantry.  I  met  a  servant  at  a  public- 
house,  who  is  going  away,  a  sea  chap,  drinking  malt  like 
a  fish,  and  I  v/ormed  all  out  of  him.  I  think  it  be  an 
easy  job.  The  butler  be  fat  and  pursey.  The  Admiral 
be  old  and  toothless. 

Bill.  That's  all  right,  so  far,  Dick ;  but  then  there  be 
the  two  young  officers  just  come  down. 

Dick.  Yes,  but  I  finds  that  they  sleep  quite  t'other  end 
of  the  house  altogether  ;  and  d'ye  see.  Bill,  the  plate  be 
only  left  out  because  they  be  come  to  the  Hall.  When 
they're  off,  the  best  of  the  pewter  will  be  all  locked  up 
again;  so,  it's  no  use  to  wait  till  they  start  off.  Come, 
what  d'ye  say,  Bill  ?  Jack  and  Nim  be  both  of  my  mind. 
I  see'd  them  this  morning. 

o  I 


Tjo  Olla  Podrida 

Bill,  {thoughtfully).     It  be  hanging  matter,  Dick. 

D'lch,  Why,  yes — so  it  be,  if  so  be  as  we  be  found  out 
first,  and  caught  arterwards — and  then  go  to  'sizes — and 
then  a  true  bill  be  given — and  then  we  be  found  guilty, 
and  arter  all,  gets  no  reprieve ;  but  there  be  as  many  a  slip 
between  the  noose  and  the  neck,  as  there  be  'tween  the 
cup  and  the  lip. 

Bill.  Well,  Dick,  I  tell  ye  what,  I've  no  objection  to 
stand  outside,  and  help  carry  off. 

Dick.  That  be  all  we  wants.  One  must  look  to  the 
nag  and  cart,  and  that  one  must  be  you.  Gie's  your 
hand  on  it.  \They  shake  hands. 

Bill.  But  I  say,  Dick,  does  Nelly  know  the  business 
in  hand  ? 

Dich  Not  yet. 

Bill.  I've  an  idea  she  won't  allow  it.  I  heard  her  talk 
summit  about  conscience — or  the  like  of  it. 

Dich,  Talk  about  fiddlesticks.  Show  her  the  pewter 
and  she'll  snap  her  fingers.  Here  she  comes.  I'll  let  her 
into  the  gammon. 

Enter  Nelly, 

Nelly.  Well,  lads  \  what's  in  the  wind  } 

Dick,  Summit  worth  sneezing  at,  Nell.  We  are  up 
to  a  rig  to-night.      Got  a  bit  of  a  frolic  for  pewter. 

Nelly,  Aye,  boys,  where  ? 

Dick.  At  the  Hall  here. 

Nelly.  It  won't  do. 

Dick.  Yes,  but  it  will  though. 

Nelly.  Yes  it  will  do  for  you  {pointing  to  her  neck).  I 
know  the  Hall  well.     It  must  not  be  thought  of. 

Dick.  But  we  have  thought  on  it,  and  ivill  think  on  it. 
We  be  all  determined,  so  there  be  an  end  of  the  matter, 
and  an  end  of  your  palaver. 

Nelly,  I  say  no  ! 

Dick,  None  o'  your  gammon — pewter  arn't  to  be  picked 
up  in  the  highways.     The  thing  be  settled. 

Nelly,  Think  no  more  on  it. 


The  Gipsy  131 

Dick.  You  mind  your  own  business,  missus.  Go  and 
tell  fortunes  to  fools  and  women  ;  leave  men  alone. 

Nelly.  I  can  tell  your  fortune.  A  dance  in  the  air  till 
you  are  out  of  breath. 

Dick.  Didn't  require  a  wise  woman  to  find  out  that. 
(^Aside.^)  But  we  must  keep  our  eyes  upon  her — she's 
queer.     (Aloud.)  Come  Bill.  [Exeunt  Bill  and  Dick. 

Nelly  sola. 

Am  I  so  fallen,  never  to  recover  ?  Must  I  sink  deeper 
and  deeper  with  these  villains  ?  Since  I  joined  them  they 
have  never  yet  attempted  anything  like  this.  Petty  theft, 
to  support  existence,  I  have  participated  in,  but  nothing 
more.  Can  I  retreat  ?  Ah,  when  I  look  upon  these  hills, 
and  remember  the  time  when  I  roved  here,  careless, 
innocent,  and  happy,  how  often  do  I  wish  that  I  could 
retrace  my  steps  !  Yonder  is  the  church  where  I  used 
to  pray.  How  long  is  it  now  since  I  have  dared  perform 
that  sacred  duty  ?  Yet,  how  often,  since  I  have  returned 
to  this  spot,  have  I  longed  to  fall  upon  my  knees  !  But 
I  am  an  outcast.  Pride  and  vanity  have  made  me  so,  and 
pride  has  reduced  me  so  to  remain,  although  I  loathe 
myself,  and  those  connected  with  me.  This  intention  of 
theirs  has,  however,  resolved  me.  The  deed  shall  not 
take  place.  I  will,  by  some  means,  warn  them  at  the  Hall 
— a  letter,  but  how  to  get  it  there  ?  It  shall  be  done, 
and  done  directly.  They  can  but  murder  me  if  I  am 
discovered,  and  what  is  my  life  now  ? — a  burden  to 
myself.  [Exit. 

Scene  II. 

An  Ornamental  Shrubbery  near  the  Lodge  of  the  Hall. 

Enter  Peter  Bargrove. 

Peter.  What  a  stupid  old  woman  not  to  confess,  after 
the  stars  had  told  the  truth !  As  to  old  Bargrove,  I  will 
have  my  revenge  upon  him.     Beat  me !    me.  Sir  Peter's 


1^2  Olla  Podrida 

heir  to  the  property !  How  confounded  strong  he  is ! 
the  old  brute  !  Out  of  respect  to  his  age,  I  did  not  strike 
him  again  ;  but  I  should  like  to  see,  just  like  to  see  the 
next  man  who  will  venture  to  lay  his  stick  across  my  back. 
Now  I'll  to  the  Hall,  and  make  myself  known  to  Lady 
Etheridge.  How  affected  she  will  be !  I'll  lay  my  life 
there  will  be  a  scene.  Who  comes  here  ?  O,  the 
fictitious  heir  to  the  property,  Captain  Bargrove,  as  he 
will  find  himself  in  a  very  short  time.  I  must  hold  myself 
rather  high ;  it  will  prepare  him,  as  it  were,  for  the  bad 
news.     Poor  fellow ! 

Enter  Captain  Etheridge  and  Mertoun,  from  the  gates  of  the 

Lodge, 

Capt,  Eth.  (holding  out  his  hand).  Hail !  Peter,  my  good 
fellow  I  how  are  you  all  at  home  ? 

Peter,  {turning  aivay,  and  folding  his  arms).  Pretty  well. 
Captain. 

Capt,  Mer,  (aside),  I  say,  Etheridge,  that's  a  dead  cut  j 
who  is  your  friend  ? 

Capt.  Eth,  (astonished).  What's  the  matter  now  ?  I 
think,  Mr  Peter,  when  I  offer  my  hand,  it  is  not  very 
courteous  in  you  to  refuse  it. 

Peter,  (ostentatiously).  Property,  Captain,  is  property. 
You'll  allow  that.  My  hand  is  my  own,  and  I  have  it 
in  possession.  You'll  allow  that.  But  there  is  other 
property,  which  at  present  is  not  in  my  possession,  but 
which  you  will  allow  to  be  hereafter.  (Aside,)  That's  a 
hard  hit. 

Capt,  Mer,  Property  is  property,  Etheridge,  and  to 
judge  by  his  manners,  your  friend  must  have  an  excess  of 
it  in  possession. 

Capt,  Eth.  Property  is  property,  but  I  doubt  if  my  friend 
has  much  of  it  in  possession. 

Peter,  No,  but  I  hope  to  have. 

Capt,  Eth.  Well,  I  hope  so  too.  But  what's  the  matter 
with  you,  Peter  ? 

Peter,  Excessively  familiar ! 


The  Gipsy  133 

Capt,  Mer,  Upon  my  word,  Etheridge  I  wonder  at  your 
patience.     Who  is  the  brute  ? 

Peter.  Brute,  sir,  did  you  say  brute  ? 

Capt.  Mer.  Yes,  sir,  I  did. 

Peter.  Then,  sir,  if  you  say  brute,  I  beg  to  observe  to 
you,  sir,  that — that 

Capt.  Mer.  What  ?     Well,  sir  ! 

Peter.  That,  sir,  a  brute  is  a  beast,  sir 

Capt.  Mer.  Exactly. 

Peter.  And  if  that's  what  you  meant,  there's  no  offence. 
Now,  if  you  say  brute  beast 

Capt.  Mer.  Well,  sir,  I  do  say  so. 

Peter.  You  do — you  do  say  so .''  Well,  then,  sir,  allow 
me  to  tell  you,  in  very  positive  terms,  sir,  that  you  have 
been  guilty  of — of  tautology. 

Capt.  Mer.   Your  friend  is  very  harmless,  Etheridge. 

Capt.  Eth.  I  am  aware  of  that ;  but  still  I  was  not  pre- 
pared for  this  impertinence,  considering  the  obligations  he 
is  under  to  my  family. 

Peter.  Obligations,  sir,  what  obligations  ?  Do  you  refer 
to  the  advantages  that  you  had  in  being  educated  with 
me  ? 

Capt.  Eth.  I  have  ever  considered  the  reverse ;  and  that 
it  was  you  who  had  the  advantages,  had  you  had  sense 
enough  to  profit  by  them. 

Peter.  Now,  observe,  there's  your  mistake. 

Capt.  Eth.  to  Capt.  Mer.  The  fool  is  mad. 

Peter.  Mad,  Captain  what's  your  name  ? 

Capt.  Eth.  Captain  what's-your-name,  Peter,  don't  stand 
insult. 

Peter.  There  is  no  insult.  I  repeat  again,  Captain 
what's-your-name.     Do  you  know  your  name  ? 

Capt.  Eth.  to  Capt.  Mer.  Why,  he's  as  mad  as  a  March 
hare. 

Capt.  Mer.  Yes,  but  not  so  hot  as  a  Welsh  rabbit. 

Peter.  A  rabbit — that's  a  boroughmonger  !  Now  I 
ought  to  take  that  up,  it  is  a  downright  insult ;  but 
perhaps  he  did  not  mean  it.     Captain  what's-your-name. 


134 


Olia  Podrida 


I  tell  you  a  secret ;  you  don't  know  your  own  name,  no, 
nor  you  don't  know  your  station  in  life. 

Capt.  Eth.  I'm  sure  you  forget  yours,  Mr  Peter.  How 
long  has  this  change  taken  place  ? 

Peter.  Ask  your  nurse.  {Aside,)  That  was  a  hard  hit ; 
he  must  smell  a  rat  now. 

Capt,  Eth,  Ask  my  nurse  ! 

Capt.  Mer,  Ask  your  granny,  Etheridge  ;  upon  my  soul, 
it's  as  good  as  a  play. 

Capt,  Eth,  To  the  audience,  perhaps  j  but  I  feel  rather 
inclined  to  be  in  earnest.  Hark  you,  Mr  Peter,  do  you 
know  I  am  very  particular  in  payment,  and  always  give 
every  man  his  due. 

Peter,  That's  it  exactly.  All  that  I  wish  is,  that  you 
v/ould  give  me  mine  ;  but  if  you  don't — I  shall  oblige  you, 
depend  upon  it. 

Capt,  Mer.  I  rather  expect  he  will,  Etheridge,  if  he 
goes  on  much  longer. 

Peter,  Thank  you  for  taking  my  part.  That's  hand- 
some.    Perhaps  you  will  persuade  him  to  do  me  justice. 

Capt,  Mer,  If  you  had  been  in  my  hands,  I  should  have 
done  you  justice  long  before  this. 

Peter,  "  There's  virtue  still  extant,"  as  the  play  has  it. 
Sir,  as  you  have  joined  my  side,  I'll  permit  you  to  shake 
hands  with  me. 

Capt.  Mer.  O  certainly  !  we  always  do  preparatory  to 
a  set-to.     Now,  then,  take  my  advice — on  your  guard  ! 

Peter  (aside).  Now  I  don't  fear  him.  (Aloud.)  Captain 
what's- you r-name,  shall  I  tell  you  your  fortune  ? 

Capt,  Eth.  O  certainly  !  you  look  like  a  conjuror. 

Peter.  It  is  your  fortune,  sir,  to  be  under  the  baleful 
influence  of  the  stars,  Georgium  Sidum  and  Copernicum. 
In  a  few  days  you  will  find  your  name  to  be  Bargrove, 
and  you  will  have  to  change  situations  with  me. 

Capt.  Eth.  Indeed  ! 

Peter.  Yes,  Captain  Bargrove,  so  it  is.  A  wicked 
woman  changed  us  in  our  cradles ;  but  the  secret  is  come 
out,    and   evidence   is    at    hand.      You   must   return   to 


The  Gipsy  135 

obscurity,  whilst  I  emerge  from  mine.  The  stars  will 
have  it  so.     Your  fortune's  told. 

Capt,  Eth.  Nonsense !  the  fool  has  been  imposed  upon. 
Now,  Mr  Peter,  I'll  tell  your  fortune. 

Peter.  I  thank  you.  It  has  been  already  told  to  my 
satisfaction. 

Capt.  Eth.  Nevertheless,  it  must  be  told  again,  although, 
perhaps,  not  to  your  satisfaction.  Mr  Peter,  I  can  put  up 
with  folly,  but  never  with  impertinence.  Mars  and  Saturn 
are  about  to  be  in  strong  opposition,  and  heavy  Saturn 
will  soon  jump  about  like  Mercury.  The  stars  will  have 
it  so. 

Peter.  I  don't  comprehend  that. 

Capt.  Eth.  It  shall  be  explained.  You,  Peter  Bargrove, 
have  been  excessively  insolent  to  me,  Edward  Etheridge  ; 
in  consequence,  I  shall  now  take  the  liberty  of  giving  you 
a  little  wholesome  correction.  [Seizes  Peter  by  the  collar. 

Capt.  Mer.  Don't  use  violence  to  the  natural.  He 
offends  more  in  ignorance  than  malice. 

Peter.  Thank  you,  sir.  I  see  that  you  are  a  well- 
behaved  gentleman.  O  sir !  sir !  'tis  a  vile,  ungrateful 
world.  I  intended  to  do  something  for  that  young  man. 
{Captain  Etheridge  shakes  him.)  Why,  yes,  I  did.  I  not 
only  intended  to  allow  you  forty  pounds  a  year,  but  to 
do  what  would  be  more  agreeable  to  your  sister  Agnes. 

Capt.  Eth.  Agreeable  to  Miss  Etheridge !  What  do 
you  mean,  sir  ? 

Peter.  Mean — why,  I'm  not  quite  sure — recollect,  I 
don't  promise  \  but  I  was  thinking  of  marrying  her. 
{Captain  Mertoim  jlies  at  him,  and  seizes  him  by  the  collar  on 
the  other  side.     They  both  shake  him  violently^ 

Capt.   Eth.  \^  f  i^y  sister,  )  you 

Capt.  Mer.  ]  ^^"  "^^""^  t  Miss  Etheridge,  |  scoundrel ! 

Capt.  Mer.  {letting  him  go).  I  am  sorry  that  I  was  pro- 
voked to  lay  hands  on  him.  Etheridge,  I'll  leave  his 
chastisement  entirely  to  you. 

Peter.  Thank  you,  sir  ;  I  always  thought  ye  were  on 
my  side.     I  suppose  that  was  a  mistake  just  now. 


136  Olla  Podrida 

Capt.  Mer.  I  certainly  had  no  right  to  interfere  between 
you  and  Captain  Etheridge. 

Capt.  Eth.  {still  holding  Peter  by  the  collar).  But,  Mr 
Peter,  we  do  not  part  yet.  You  may  have  made  your 
peace  with  Captain  Mertoun,  but  not  with  me.  How 
dare  you  insult  me  thus  ? 

Peter.  I  insult  you  !  {To  Captain  Mertoun.)  Arn't  you 
of  my  side  ? 

Capt.  Mer.  {laughing).  Yes ;  if  you  are  knocked  down, 
I,  as  your  second,  will  help  you  up  again,  no  more. 

Peter.  Weil — but  Fm  not  a  nine-pin.  Why  not  prevent 
him  from  knocking  me  down  ? 

Capt.  Mer.  The  stars  won't  permit  that. 

Capt.  Eth.  And  the  stars  ordain  this.     {Lifting  his  cane.) 

Peter.  Captain  Etheridge,  one  word  |  let  go  my  collar, 
behave  like  a  reasonable  man,  and  I  now  promise,  upon 
my  word  of  honour,  that  I  will  elevate  your  sister  to  my 
— nuptial  bed.  {Captain  Mertoun  shakes  his  cane,  and  makes 
signs  to  Captain  Etheridge  to  thrash  him.) 

Capt.  Eth,  I  can  bear  no  more.  {Beats  Peter  round  the 
stage.) 

Peter.  Oh !  oh !  My  stars  again.  Why  don't  you  help 
me,  sir? 

Capt.  Mer.  You  are  not  down  yet,  Peter.  {Captain 
Etheridge  continues  striking.) 

Peter  {throiuing  himself  down,  and  panting).     Now  I  am. 

Capt.  Mer,  Yes,  and  now  I  may  help  you  up.  Then  you 
may  go  at  it  again. 

Peter.  What !  am  I  to  have  more  of  it  if  I  am  up  ? 

Capt.  Mer.  I  rather  suspect  so. 

Peter.  Then  I  prefer  lying  here.  You  need  not  wait. 
Captain  Bargrove.  I  sha'n't  get  up  this  half-hour. 
{Rubbing  his  shoulders.) 

Capt.  Eth.  You  observe,  Peter,  I  told  you  your  fortune 
correctly.  The  stars  would  have  it  so.  I  hope,  when 
next  we  meet,  you  will  be  a  little  more  reasonable,  and 
also  a  little  more  respectful.  If  not,  I  hold  your  fortune 
in  my  hands.     {Holding  up  his  cane.) 


The  Gipsy  137 

Peter,  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  you  did?  Why  don't 
you  return  it  like  an  honest  man  ?  As  I  said  before,  I'll 
make  you  an  allowance. 

Capt,  Eth.  That's  more  than  I  will  for  you,  if  I  have 
any  more  impertinence  Come,  Mertoun,  he'll  not  come 
to  time,  that's  clear. 

Capt,  Mer,  No,  nor  to  his  fortune  or  title  either,  I'm 
afraid.     Good  morning,  Peter.     Ha  !  ha  \  ha  ! 

Capt,  Eth.  Farewell,  Sir  Peter  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

[^Exeunt  Captains  Mertoun  and  Etheridge. 

Peter  (sitting  up).  Come  to  time — nor  to  my  title  and 
fortune.  Well,  I  hope  they'll  both  come  to  the  gallows. 
I  thought  of  that  as  a  repartee  when  they  were  here,  but 
it  was  too  good  to  be  thrown  away  upon  them.  (Rises.) 
It  is  very  odd  that  nobody  will  believe  me  when  the 
facts  are  so  plain.  As  Shakespeare  says,  the  "  ladder  of 
my  ambition  is  so  hard  to  climb."  I  presume  these  are 
all  the  sticks  I  am  to  get  up  by.  I'm  almost  tired  of  it 
already ;  but,  however,  after  two  misses  comes  a  hit ; 
and  I'll  try  the  last.  Now  to  Lady  Etheridge,  discover 
myself  to  her,  sob  upon  her  bosom,  as  the  gipsy  foretold 
I  should ;  and  then  if  she  is  but  on  my  side,  why  I  defy 
all  the  men  in  the  family.  [Exit, 

Scene  III. 

A  parlour  in  the  homestead. 
Enter  Old  Bargrove  and  Mrs  Baygrcve. 

Old  Bar.  Why,  dame,  I  can  make  nothing  out  of  it. 
I  have  questioned  Lucy  as  closely  as  possible,  and  it 
appears  that  it  was  a  gipsy  woman  who  told  their 
fortunes.  But  still,  as  Lucy  told  me  the  story,  there  is 
something  very  strange  about  it. 

Mrs  Bar.  Lucy  appears  to  take  it  very  much  to  heart, 
poor  thing ! 

Old  Bar,  She  does,  dame,  but  in  the  right  way.  She 
thinks   of  others,  and  not   of  herself.     I  tell  you   this, 


138  Olla  Podrida 

dame,  if  I  thought  that  Lucy  was  not  my  daughter,  it 
would  almost  break  my  heart. 

Mrs  Bar.  She's  a  good  girl,  and  content  with  her 
father  and  mother.     I  only  wish  that  Peter  was  the  same. 

0/d  Bar.  Peter  was  born  a  fool,  dame,  and  he'll  never 
be  anything  else.  But  I  hope  this  may  prove  of  service 
to  him.     I  hear  that  he  has  already  been  up  to  the  Hall. 

Mrs  Bar.  Had  we  not  better  go  there,  too,  Bargrove, 
and  see  Sir  Gilbert,  or  they  may  suppose  we  be  parties 
to  the  report. 

0/d  Bar.  Why  should  they,  and  who  knows  the  report 
as  yet  ? 

Mrs  Bar.  O,  everybody  !  I  was  told  of  it  ten  minutes 
back  by  Mrs  Benson.  She  heard  it  of  the  footman, 
William.  He  says,  that  Captain  Etheridge  has  given 
Peter  a  sound  thrashing. 

0/d  Bar.  Did  he  ?  Then  I  am  very  much  indebted  to 
him.  I'll  tell  you  what,  dame,  I'll  to  the  wood  and  find 
out  this  gipsy  woman  ;  and  if  threatening  her  with  the 
stocks  and  Bridewell  won't  make  her  confess,  I  have  a 
warrant  in  my  pocket,  juSt  made  out  by  the  magistrates' 
clerk,  for  the  apprehension  of  the  gang,  on  suspicion  of 
their  stealing  Mrs  Fowler's  turkey,  and  Farmer  Groves' 
geese.  We'll  first  see  what  can  be  done  there  •,  and 
then  I'll  come  back,  and  we'll  walk  up  to  the  Hall. 

Mrs  Bar.  Do  so,  Bargrove ,  let  us  show  that  we've 
a  clear  conscience,  at  all  events. 

0/d  Bar.  I'll  be  back  in  an  hour,  dame ;  I  must  go 
down  to  Wilson,  the  constable.  [Exit  o/d  Bar, 

Mrs  Bar.  I  never  was  so  put  out  in  my  life.  That 
boy  Peter's  folly  worries  me  to  death.  Who  comes  here  ? 
why,  it's  Captain  Etheridge,  I  do  declare.  I  am  almost 
afraid  to  see  one  of  the  family  now. 

Enter  Captain  Etioeridge, 

Capt.  Eth.  My  dear  Mrs  Bargrove,  with  your  per- 
mission.    {Kissing  her.)     I  can't  leave  off  my  old  habit 


The  Gipsy  139 

of  kissing  my  nurse.  How  are  you,  and  your  husband, 
and  how  is  pretty  Lucy  ? 

Mrs  Bavo  Quite  well,  thank  you,  Mr  Edward.  Dear 
me,  what  a  man  you  do  grow  ! 

Capt.  Eth.  If  I  am  not  a  man  at  five-and-twenty,  dame, 
I  never  shall  be. 

Mrs  Bar.  Five-and-twenty  !  dear  heart !  so  it  is — but 
time  does  fly  fast !  It  appears  to  me  but  the  other  day 
that  I  had  you  in  my  arms.  How  does  Miss  Agnes 
to-day  ? 

Capt.  Eth.  Not  very  well,  dame,  she  has  something  to 
vex  her.  Indeed,  there's  a  rumour  flying  about,  and  I've 
come  down  to  speak  with  you  and  Lucy  on  the  subject. 

Mrs  Bar.  I  know  it  all ;  but  it's  all  false,  Mr  Edward, 
all  stuff  and  nonsense  from  beginning  to  end.  Bargrove 
has  now  gone  to  sift  the  matter.  I'm  sure  I  ought  to 
know.  A  pretty  trouble  I've  had  about  it ;  what  with 
foolish  Peter,  even  Bargrove  himself  spoke  to  me  as  if 
I  could  have  been  guilty  of  such  an  act. 

Capt.  Eth.  What  does  Lucy  think  of  it  ? 

Mrs  Bar.  Lucy  is  more  vexed  than  any  of  us.  I  really 
think,  if  she  thought  it  true,  that  she  would  make  away 
with  herself. 

Capt.  Eth.  What !  at  the  idea  of  being  Miss  Etheridge ! 
no  cause  that  for  suicide  either. 

Mrs  Bar.  No,  not  that,  Captain  Etheridge ;  but  at  the 
idea  of  rising  in  the  world  at  the  expense  of  those  to 
whom  she  owes  both  love  and  gratitude.  She's  a  good 
girl.  Captain  Etheridge. 

Capt.  Eth.  I  agree  with  you,  dame,  she's  a  very  sweet 
girl.     I  wish  to  speak  to  her.     Will  you  send  her  to  me  ? 

Mrs  Bar.  To  be  sure  I  will,  Master  Edward.  She'll 
be  glad  to  see  you.  She's  always  asking  after  you  when 
you  be  away.  [^Exit  Mrs  Bargrove. 

Capt.  Eth.  I  did  but  say  a  few  words  to  her  on  my 
arrival.  I  dared  not  trust  myself  with  more.  She  looked 
so  beautiful.  I  have  not  been  able  to  drive  her  from  my 
thoughts  ever  since.     Heigho  !  the  conflict  between  love 


I40  Olla  Podrlda 

and  pride  is  well  contested :  nothing  but  opportunity  can 
give  the  victory  to  the  one,  and  absence  to  the  other. 
The  more  I  know  of  her,  the  more  deserving  she  appears. 
I  often  try  to  find  faults  in  her,  but  I  cannot  discover 
them.  I  suppose  that  I  inherit  all  my  pride  from  my 
mother  ;  that  I  cherish  it  in  preference  to  my  happiness  is 
clear.  But  should  this  report  prove  true.  Such  things 
have  occurred,  and  this  may  have  been  done  without  the 
knowledge  of  Mrs  Bargrove.  Agnes  and  Lucy  then 
change  situations ;  and  I  with  that  cub,  Peter  Bargrove. 
Very  pleasant  indeed !  the  former  is  not  of  much  conse- 
quence but  to  be  jostled  out  of  my  supposed  birthright 
by  a  booby ! 

Enter  Lucy. 

Capt,  Eth,  {going  up  tc  her  and  taking  her  by  the  hand),  I 
took  the  liberty  to  request  a  few  minutes'  interview. 

Lucy  {smil'mg).  Surely  not  a  very  great  liberty  with  one 
whom  you  have  known  so  long,  and  who  is  so  very  much 
indebted  to  your  father. 

Capt.  Eth,  Not  so  much  as  his  children  are  indebted  to 
your  mother.  But  the  object  of  my  visit  is,  Lucy,  to 
request  that  you  will  give  me  some  information  relative  to 
a  ridiculous  report. 

Lucy,  I  can,  and  I  can  assure  you,  Captain  Etheridge, 
that  I  believe  it  to  be  without  the  shadow  of  a  foundation. 
That  Agnes  and  I  were  both  taken  by  surprise  at  the 
moment,  you  must  not  wonder  at ;  but  on  reflection,  I  am 
convinced  that  it  is  a  fabrication.  Indeed,  the  very  idea  is 
most  injurious  to  the  character  of  my  mother. 

Capt,  Eth.  I  grant  this  ;  but  the  change  may  have  taken 
place  without  the  knowledge  of  your  mother. 

Lucy,  It  is  possible,  but  barely  possible,  who  but  a 
foolish  mother,  blinded  by  partiality,  would  ever  have  been 
guilty  of  an  act  which  never  could  benefit  herself? 

Capt.  Eth.  You  are  not  well  acquainted  with  the  knavery 
of  the  world.  To  prove  a  fact  like  this,  in  a  court  of 
justice,  would,  in  most  instances,  be  rewarded  liberally. 


The  Gipsy  141 

Your  brother,  for  instance,  seems  to  view  the  affair  in  a 
very  different  light. 

Lucy,  Captain  Etheridge,  I  can  honestly  assert,  that  the 
rumour  has  occasioned  to  me  the  greatest  uneasiness  ;  and 
were  it  to  prove  true,  I  should  be  still  more  unhappy. 

Capt,  Eth,  I  cannot  understand  you.  You  would  find 
yourself  raised  to  a  position  in  society  which  you  did  not 
expect ;  courted  by  those  who  at  present  disregard  you, 
and  moving  in  a  circle  to  which,  I  must  say,  your  beauty 
and  your  other  natural  gifts  would  contribute  to  adorn. 

Lucy,  Do  not  flatter  me.  I  have  a  great  dislike  to  it. 
I  am,  I  trust,  satisfied  in  my  present  situation  ;  and,  were 
I  weak  enough  to  indulge  a  transient  feeling  of  vanity,  the 
reminiscence  which  would  instantly  intrude,  that  my 
advancement  was  founded  on  the  misery  of  those  I  love 
better  than  myself,  would  render  it  a  source  of  deep  and 
unceasing  regret. 

Capt,  Eth.  Those  you  love  better  than  yourself,  Lucy ; 
who  are  they  ? 

Lucy  {confused),  I  referred  to  your  sister  Agnes,  and  to 
your  father. 

Capt,  Eth.  O,  not  to  me  ! — then  I  am  an  exclusion. 

Lucy,  My  gratitude  to  your  father  for  his  kindness,  and 
our  intimacy  from  childhood,  ought  to  assure  you,  Captain 
Etheridge,  that 1  must  ever  wish  for  your  happiness. 

Capt,  Eth,  But  suppose,  my  dear  Lucy,  this  should 
prove  to  be  true. 

Lucy,  I  have  already  stated  my  sentiments. 

Capt,  Eth,  You  have,  Lucy,  generally,  and  much  to  your 
honour ;  but  I  am  just  putting  the  case  for  my  amusement. 
Suppose  it  were  proved  true,  you  would  not  look  down 
upon  me  as  the  child  of  your  inferiors  ? 

Lucy,  Captain  Etheridge,  the  very  observation,  for  your 
amusement,  is  both  ungenerous  and  unkind.  I  acknowledge 
our  present  inferiority,  but  not  perhaps  to  the  extent 
which  would  be  exacted  from  your  family.  But  oblige  me 
by  not  carrying  your  suppositions  any  further.  {Tremulously^ 
I  am  not  very  happy — as  it  is. 


142  Olla  Podrida 

Capt,  Eth.  Forgive  me,  Lucy,  I  did  not  intend  to  inflict 
pain.     I  am  much  too  fond  of  you  for  that. 

Lucy,  Then  why  do  you  come  here  to  make  me 
miserable  ? 

Capt.  Eth,  To  make  you  miserable,  my  dear  Lucy .''  I 
should,  indeed,  be  a  wretch,  when  my  own  liappiness 
depends  upon  you.  {Lucy  starts.)  {Aside.)  It  is  out  at 
last.  Now  there's  no  retreat  in  honour,  and  I  thank 
heaven  for  it.  (Aloud.)  Did  you  hear  me,  Lucy  ?  {Lucy 
appears  fainting,  Etheridge  supports  her.)  Are  you  angry 
with  me,  Lucy  ?  {^he  weeps.)  I  will  confess  to  you  honestly, 
that  I  have  long  struggled  with  my  passion,  but  pride, 
ridiculous  pride,  has  severely  punished  me  for  listening  to 
its  selfish  dictates.  Believe  me,  when  I  assert,  that  never 
was  man  more  attached  than  I  am  to  you.  Answer  me, 
Lucy,  am  I  then  indifferent  to  you  1 

Lucy,  {separating  herself  gently  from  Captain  Etheridge). 
I  will  be  as  candid  as  you  have  been.  {Remains  for  a  little 
time  silent.)  Whether  you  are  IndifFerent  to  me  or  not,  I 
must  leave  you  to  judge,  from  the  eifects  of  your  com- 
munication ;  but  I  have  also  pride,  and  that  pride  never 
will  allow  me  to  enter  a  family  against  the  wishes  of  those 
who  have  a  right  to  be  consulted  on  a  question  of  such 
serious  importance. 

Capt.  Eth.  Only  one  question,  Lucy.  If  my  father 
consents  to  our  union,  will  you  be  satisfied,  without  the 
concurrence  of  my  mother  ? 

Lucy.  I  should  abide  by  the  decision  of  my  own  father 
and  mother  j  but,  to  confess  the  truth,  I  should  not  be 
satisfied. 

Capt.  Eth.  Am  I  then  to  consider  this  as  a  mere  act  of 
duty,  Lucy  ?     Is  there  no  feeling  towards  me  ? 

Lucy.  O  yes  !  Why  should  I  deny  it  ?  Indeed,  Edward, 
if  you  could  have  read  my  heart  for  some  time  back,  you 
would  have  found — — 

Capt.  Eth.  What,  my  dear  Lucy  ? 

Lucy.  That  your  image  has  long  occupied  it — to  its 
unhappiness. 


The  Gipsy  143 

Capt.  Eth,  As  yours  has  mine.  Now  I  trust  they  will 
cherish  their  inmates  with  delight.  Farewell,  my  dearest 
Lucy ;  I  hasten  to  my  father,  and  I've  an  idea  in  my  brain 
which  may  procure  the  completion  of  our  wishes. 

\They  embrace.     Exit  Captain  Etheridge, 

Lucy.  God  give  me  strength,  and  make  me  sufficiently 
grateful !  This  was  so  unexpected.  O  Edward  !  Edward  ! 
you  have  opened  such  a  vista  of  delight  through  the  dark 
clouds  that  surrounded  me,  that  I  tremble  as  I  gaze. 
How  dreadful  will  be  this  suspense  !  Now  am  I  arrived 
at  the  crisis  of  my  fate.  Either  I  am  blessed  beyond  all 
hope,  and  all  desert — or  else — I  die.  \Exit. 

Scene  IV. 

A    room    in    the   Hall.      Enter    William^    showing    in    Peter 
Bargrove. 

Will.  Step  in  this  room,  Mr  Peter,  and  Fll  let  my  lady 
know  that  you  are  here.  I  say,  Mr  Peter,  what  can  you 
want  with  my  lady  ? 

Peter  {consequentially).  That  cannot  concern  you,  sir,  I 
should  think. 

Will.  What's  the  matter  now  ?  Why,  you  used  to  be 
civil  and  genteel.  I  say,  I  suppose  you  have  found  a 
mare's  nest. 

Peter.  Don't  be  saucy,  sir  5  go  and  deliver  your  message 
to  my  lady. 

Will.  And  if  it  warn't  for  my  own  sake,  I  wouldn't 
now.  \Exit  William. 

Peter.  We  shall  see  some  difference,  I  flatter  myself,  in 
their  behaviour  when  they  know  who's  who.  How  shall 
I  address  her  }  I  never  before  dare  speak  to  her,  she  is  so 
haughty  and  proud.  But  she  won't  be  so  when  she  knows 
that  I  am  her  son.     Pooh  !  I  don't  care  for  her  now. 

Re-enter  William. 

Will.  My  lady  desires  you  to  wait  in  the  servants'  hall 
till  she  sends  for  you.     This  way. 


144  Olla  Podrida 

Peter,  Indeed,  I  will  no|: — I'll  wait  here. 

Will,  O,  very  well — just  as  you  please  ;  but  you*ll  take 
the  consequences.  Recollect,  I  have  delivered  my  lady's 
message. 

Peter,  You  have — and  you  may  go. 

Will.  Weil,  I  suspect  you  be  got  a  cloth  in  the  wind, 
Mr  Peter.  \Exit  William. 

Peter,  Means  Fm  drunk  !  Insolent  fellow  !  I'll  give 
him  warning.  I  daresay  my  lady  will  be  very  angry  till 
she  knows  the  circumstances.  Then  the  sooner  I  let  it  out 
the  better  (walks  about).  What  care  I.  I'll  be  as  brave  as 
brass. 

Lady  Eth.  {without).     I'll  be  back  directly. 

Peter  {fantting  himself  with  his  hat),  O  lud  !  here  she 
comes.  {Recovering  himself).  Who  cares  !  Let  her  come. 
Enter  Lady  Etheridge, 

Lady  Eth,  You  here,  sir  !  I  desired  you  to  wait  in  the 
servants'  hall. 

Peter,  Yes,  my  lady,  you  did — but — but — that  is  not  a 
fit  place  for  ms. 

Lady  Eth,  I  am  sure  this  room  is  not.  Well,  sir — what 
do  you  want  ? 

Peter.  Lady  Etheridge,  I  have  most  important  intelli- 
gence to  communicate. 

Lady  Eth,  Well,  sir,  let  me  hear  it. 

Peter,  Lady  Etheridge,  prepare  yourself  for  most  un- 
thought-of  news. 

Lady  Eth,  Will  you  speak  out,  fool  ? 

Peter  {aside).  Fool !  very  maternal  indeed.  {Aloud,)  If 
I  am  a  fool.  Lady  Etheridge,  why,  all  the  worse  for  you. 

Lady  Eth.  How,  sir  ? 

Peter,  Yes,  my  lady,  I  think  you'll  treat  me  with  more 
respect  very  soon. 

Lady  Eth,  I  shall  order  the  servants  to  show  you  the 
door  very  soon. 

Peter,  If  you  do,  my  lady,  I  sha'n't  go  out  of  it. 

Lady  Eth.  Insolent  fellow,  leave  the  room  directly. 

Peter,  No,  can't,  upon  my  honour.     {Aside.)  How  she'll 


The  Gipsy  145 

beg  my  pardon  for  all  this  by-and-bye !  It's  really  very 
pleasant.  {Aloud.)  I  come,  my  lady,  to  communicate  most 
important  intelligence,  but  I  want  to  break  it  to  you  care- 
fully, lest  you  should  be  too  much  overcome  with  joy. 
Prepare  yourself,  my  lady,  for  astounding  news.  You 
have  a  son  ! 

Lady  Eth.  {Aside.)  The  fellow's  mad.  {Aloud.)  Well, 
sir,  what's  that  to  you  ? 

Peter.  A  great  deal,  my  lady  ;  you  don't  know  him. 

Lady  Eth.  What  does  the  fool  mean  ? 

Peter.  No,  my  lady,  you  don't  know  him.  Him  whom 
you  suppose  to  be  your  son — is — not  your  son. 

Lady  Eth.  {Startled.)  Indeed  ! 

Peter.  Yes,  my  lady,  but  your  son  is  not  far  off. 

Lady  Eth.  Are  you  deranged  ? 

Peter.  No  ;  quite  sensible — hear  me  out.  Dame  Bargrove 
nursed  that  son. 

Lady  Eth.  Well,  sir  ! 

Peter.  And,  Lady  Etheridge,  we  have  proof  positive, 
that  the  wicked  woman  changed  him. 

Lady  Eth.  {screaming.)  Changed  him  ! 

Peter.  Yes,  changed  him  for  her  own.  Edward 
Etheridge  is  Edward  Bargrove,  and  Peter  Bargrove  Peter 
Etheridge.  My  dear,  dear  mother  !  {Runs  into  her  arms 
and  kisses  her  repeatedly  ^  notwithstanding  her  endeavours  to 
prevent  him.) 

Lady  Eth.  {screaming.)  Oh  !  oh  ! 

[Peter  leads  her  to  a  chair ^  and  she  goes  into  hysterics. 

Peter.   How  very  affecting. 

Enter  Sir  Gilbert. 

Adm.  What's  all  this  !  Is  Lady  Etheridge  ill  ? 

Peter.  A  little  overcome  with  joy.  Sir  Gilbert.  It  will  be 
your  turn  next. 

Ad7n.  {Going  to  Lady  Etheridge,  ivho  recovers.)  What's 
the  matter,  my  love  ? 

Lady  Eth.  {spitting).  O  the  wretch — the  brute  !  He 
has  taken  liberties  ! 

O  K 


146  Olla  Podrida 

Adm.  Taken  liberties,  the  scoundrel  I  Pray,  sir,  what 
liberties  have  you  taken  with  Lady  Etheridge  ? 

Peter.  I  only  smothered  her  with  kisses. 

Adm,  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  Are  you  mad  ?  Smother- 
ing her  with  kisses ! 

Peter,  (smiling).  I  certainly  did  assume  that  privilege. 
Sir  Gilbert. 

Adm.  Did  you,  you  rascal  ?  then  I'll  just  assume  another 

(Thrashes  Peter  round  the  room.) 

Peter.  My  father  !  O  my  honoured  parent  !  Oh  !  your 
own  son  !  Oh,  your  affectionate 

\Exit  Peter,  pursued  by  the  Admiral. 

Adm.  (returning,  puffing  and  blowing).  Why,  positively, 
the  fellow  is  stark,  staring  mad. 

Enter  Agnes,  Captains  Etheridge  and  Mertoun. 

Capt.  Eth.  What  is  all  this  disturbance,  my  dear  father  ? 

Adm.  What  is  it,  why,  I  hardly  can  tell.  There  has 
been  an  impudent  scoundrel — that  young  Bargrove — 
kissing  your  mother  till  she  has  fainted,  and  swearing  that 
he  is  my  son.  Called  me  his  honoured  parent — but  I 
cudgelled  the  rascal ! 

Agnes,  (leaning  on  Captain  Etheridge  s  shoulder).  O 
heavens ! 

Capt.  Eth.  The  fellow  himself  has  just  now  been  trying 
to  elbow  me  out  of  my  birthright.  However,  I  met  his 
pretensions  with  the  same  argument  as  you  did.  Who  could 
have  put  all  this  nonsense  into  his  addled  head  so  firmly, 
that  two  good  cudgellings  cannot  beat  it  out  ? 

Capt.  Mer.  Etheridge,  your  sister  is  unwell. 

Capt.  Eth.  Don't  be  alarmed,  my  dear  Agnes. 

Agnes.  Oh  !  but  indeed  I  am — I  expected  this. 

Adm.  Expected  this  !  Have  you,  then,  heard  anything, 
my  love  ? 

Agnes.  Yes,  I  have  indeed  j  just  before  my  brother 
arrived  I  was  told  that  my  real  name  was  Agnes  Bargrove. 

Adm.  How  very  extraordinary  !  Who  told  you  so  } 


The  Gipsy  147 

Agnes,  A  very  strange  woman  ;  but  she  appeared  to 
know  all  about  it.  It  has  made  me  very  unhappy  ever 
since. 

Adm.  This  must  be  inquired  into.  Where  did  you 
meet  with  her  ? 

Agnes.  In  the  lower  wood.  But  Lucy  can  tell  you  more. 
Speak  to  her. 

Lady  Eth.  I'm  very  ill.     Lead  me  to  my  room. 

[Exeunt  Sir  Gilbert  and  Lady  Etheridge, 

Capt,  Eth.  And  I  must  away  to  unravel  this  deep-laid 
plot.     Mertoun,  I  must  leave  you  to  take  care  of  Agnes. 

[Exit  Capt.  Etheridge. 

Capt.  Mer.  A  pleasing  change,  if  I  am  not  unwelcome. 
May  I  be  permitted,  Miss  Etheridge,  from  a  very  great 
interest  which  I  must  ever  take  in  the  prosperity  of  your 
family — may  I  ask  if  you  imagine  there  is  any  truth  in 
this  report  ? 

Agnes.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  answer.  Captain 
Mertoun.  Why  should  such  a  report  be  raised  without 
some  foundation.  True  or  not,  I  have  ever  since  felt  in 
a  situation  so  awkward,  that  I  fear  my  conduct  may  have 
appeared  strange  to  others. 

Capt.  Mer.  I  must  confess  that  your  evident  restraint  to- 
wards me,  so  different  from  what  perhaps  my  vanity  induced 
me  to  hope,  has  been  to  me  a  source  of  wonder  as  well  as 
regret.  May  I  flatter  myself  that  this  rumour  has  been  the 
occasion  of  an  apparent  caprice,  which  I  never  could  have 
imagined  that  Miss  Etheridge  would  have  indulged  in  ^ 

Agnes.  You  must  be  aware.  Captain  Mertoun,  that  I 
could  not  receive  you  as  Agnes  Etheridge  until  those 
doubts  upon  my  parentage  were  removed.  It  would  not 
have  been  honest. 

Capt.  Mer.  And  was  this  the  only  cause  for  your  change 
of  behaviour  towards  me,  Agnes  ? 

Agnes.  Why — yes, — I  believe  so. 

Capt.  Mer.  Now,  then,  let  me  declare  that,  whether  you 
prove  to  be  Agnes  Etheridge,  or  Agnes  Bargrove,  those 


148  Olla  Podrida 

sentiments  which  I  have  felt  towards  you,  and  which  have 
not  hitherto  been  revealed  excepting  to  your  brother,  must 
ever  remain  the  same.  For  your  own  sake,  and  for  the 
sake  of  Sir  Gilbert  and  Lady  Etheridge,  who  would  deeply 
regret  the  loss  of  such  a  daughter,  I  trust  that  the  report 
is  without  foundation.  For  my  own  part,  I  rather  rejoice 
at  this  opportunity  of  proving  the  sincerity  of  my  attach- 
ment. Let  me  but  find  favour  in  the  sight  of  Agnes,  and 
the  surname  will  be  immaterial. 

Agnes.  Immaterial,  Captain  Mertoun  ! 

Capt.  Mer.  Yes,  quite  so ;  for  I  shall  persuade  you  to 
change  it  as  soon  as  possible,  for  my  own.  (Kneels.)  Tell 
me,  dearest  Agnes 

Agnes.  Tell  you  what  ? 

Capt.  Mer.  Something  that  will  make  me  happy. 

Agnes,  {smiling).  Shall  I  tell  you  what  the  gipsy  woman 
said  when  she  told  me  my  fortune  ? 

Capt.  Mer.  Nay,  do  not  trifle  with  me. 

Agnes,  (archly).  I  asked  whether  I  should  marry  the 
person  that  I  loved. 

Capt.  Mer.  A  very  natural  question. 

Agnes.  She  replied,  "  Yes,  if  he  is  more  generous  than 
the  generality  of  his  sex."  (Gives  her  hand.)  Captain 
Mertoun,  you  have  proved  yourself  so  to  be,  and,  since 
you  offer  to  take  Agnes,  truly  speaking,  for  "  better  or 
for  worse,"  I  will  not  keep  you  in  suspense  by  disguising 
my  real  sentiments. 

Capt.  Mer.  Dearest  Agnes,  you  have  indeed  made  me 
happy.  (Embraces  her.)  I  accompanied  your  brother, 
with  the  sole  view  of  pleading  my  own  cause.  Imagine 
then  my  misery  at  your  cruel  reception. 

Agnes.  That  you  may  not  think  me  interested  by  my 
accepting  your  generous  offer  during  this  state  of  uncer- 
tainty, I  will  own  how  often  I  have  thought  of  you,  and 
how  eagerly  I  looked  for  your  arrival.  Let  us  go  now, 
Mertoun,  and  see  whether  Lady  Etheridge  is  recovered. 

[Exeunt  arm  in  arm 


The  Gipsy  149 

Scene  V, 

The  wood.     Enter  Nelly. 

Nelly.  I  have  tried  in  vain  to  dissuade  them  to  abandon 
their  projects.  They  are  preparing  their  instruments  and 
their  weapons.  They  have  determined  to  attempt  the 
Hall  to-night.  I  have  written  this  letter  to  Sir  Gilbert, 
and,  if  I  can  find  any  one  to  convey  it,  the  scoundrels  will 
be  taken  and  punished.  If  I  cannot,  I  must  contrive  some 
means  to  escape  to  the  Hall ;  but  they  suspect  me,  and 
watch  me  so  narrowly,  that  it  is  almost  impossible.  What 
shall  I  do  ?  There  is  somebody  coming ;  it  is  that  fool, 
Peter  Bargrove.  Then  all  is  right.  I  will  make  use  of 
him. 

Ejiter  Peter. 

Your  servant,  fortunate  sir  ! 

Peter.  Fortunate !  why  now  ar'n't  you  an  infamous 
hussy  ?  Hav'n't  you  taken  my  purse  and  my  money,  for 
your  intelligence  that  I  was  changed  in  my  cradle, — and 
what  has  been  the  consequence  ? 

Nelly.  That  everybody  has  been  astonished. 

Peter.  I  have  been  astonished,  at  all  events.  I  have 
had  so  many  cudgellings  that  I  must  count  them  with  my 
fingers.  First,  a  huge  one  from  old  Bargrove  ;  secondly, 
a  smart  one  from  Captain  Etheridge ;  and  thirdly,  a  severe 
one  from  Sir  Gilbert.  What  is  the  value  of  your  good 
news  if  no  one  will  believe  it  ? 

Nelly.  Very  true  —  but  how  could  you  expect  they 
would  ? 

Peter.  Then  what's  the  good  of  knowing  it  ? 

Nelly.  You  must  know  a  fact  before  you  attempt  to 
prove  it.  You  only  bought  the  knowledge  of  me,  you 
never  paid  for  the  proof. 

Peter.  No  ;  but  I've  paid  for  the  knowledge.  (Rubbing 
his  shoulders.^  But  didn't  you  say  that  Mrs  Bargrove 
would  confess  ? 


150  Olla  Podrida 

Nelly,  I  thought  it  likely — but,  if  she  won't,  we  must 
make  her. 

Peter,  How  ? 

Nelly,  Bring  evidence  against  her  that  will  convict  her, 
so  that  she  will  find  it  useless  denying  it  ? 

Peter,  But  where  is  it  ? 

Nelly,  Here  (holding  out  the  letter), 

Peter,  Give  it  me. 

Nelly,  Stop,  stop ;  you've  not  paid  for  it. 

Peter,  Upon  my  honour,  I've  not  got  a  farthing  in  the 
world.  I  durst  not  ask  either  father  or  mother  after  the 
bobbery  weVe  had.  Indeed,  I  hardly  know  whether  I 
dare  go  home  and  get  my  victuals.  "Won't  you  trust 
me  ? 

Nelly,  When  will  you  pay  me  ? 

Peter,  When  I  come  to  my  title  and  estate. 

Nelly,  Well  then,  as  I  think  you  are  a  gentleman,  I  will 
trust  you.  Now  observe,  this  letter  is  addressed  to  Sir 
Gilbert.  It  contains  a  statement  of  facts  that  will  astonish 
and  convince  him.  You  must  not  trust  it  into  other  hands, 
but  deliver  it  yourself. 

Peter,  He'll  cudgel  me. 

Nelly.  No,  he  will  not.  But,  even  if  he  did,  would  you 
mind  a  few  blows  for  the  certainty  of  being  one  day  Sir 
Peter  Etheridge  ? 

Peter,  No,  hang  me  if  I  do.  They  might  all  cudgel  me 
together,  if  they  could  cudgel  me  into  the  only  son  of  a 
baronet  of  ten  thousand  a  year. 

Nelly,  Well,  then,  as  soon  as  you  can,  go  boldly  up  to 
the  Hall,  and  say  to  Sir  Gilbert,  "Sir  Gilbert,  injustice  to 
yourself,  read  this  letter,  and  do  not  despise  the  caution, 
as  it  is  all  true."     You  v/iil  then  see  the  effect  of  it. 

Peter,  See — not  feel.  You  are  certain  he  won't  be 
angry.  Well,  then,  I  will — in  this  case  I'm  in  a  great 
hurry  as  anybody.     I  can  promise.     So  good-bye. 

{Exit, 

Nelly,  Now  I  think  all  is  safe ;  but  I  must  quit  the  gang 
or  my  life  will  be  in  danger 


The  Gipsy  151 

Enter  Old  Bargrove,  with  Constable, 

Oh,  that  I  could  recall  the  last  twenty  years  !  How- 
wicked,  how  infamous  have  I  become. 

[Covers  her  face  ivith  her  hands.    Old  Bargrove  advances 
and  taps  her  on  the  shoulder,     Nelly  starts, 

Mercy  on  me  ! 

Old  Bar.  You  must  not  expect  much.  I  believe  you 
tell  fortunes,  my  good  woman ! 

Nelly,  (curtseying.)  Yes,  sir,  sometimes. 

Old  Bar.  And  steal  geese  and  turkeys  ? 

Nelly.  No,  sir,  indeed. 

Old  Bar.  Well,  you  help  to  eat  them  afterwards,  and 
the  receiver  is  just  as  bad  as  the  thief.  You  must  come 
along  with  me. 

Nelly,  Along  with  you,  sir  ! 

Old  Bar.  Do  you  see  this  little  bit  of  paper  ?  But,  now 
I  look  at  you,  haven't  we  met  before  ? 

Nelly.  Met  before,  sir  ! 

Old  Bar.  Yes — hold  your  head  up  a  little,  either  my 
eyes  deceive  me,  or  you — yes,  I'll  swear  to  it — you  are 
Nelly  Armstrong.  Not  quite  so  good-looking  as  you 
were  when  we  parted.  Now  I  understand  all.  Come, 
take  her  along  to  the  Hall  at  once. 

Nelly.  Indeed,  sir 

Old  Bar.  Not  a  word.  Away  with  her,  slanderous,  lying, 
mischievous [Exeunt  omnes. 

Scene  VI. 

A  Draivitig'Room  in  the  HalL 

Enter  Sir  Gilbert  and  Captain  Etheridge, 

Adm.  I  love  Lucy  as  my  own  daughter,  and  it  often 
occurred  to  me  how  delighted  I  should  be  to  receive  her  as 
such.  But  your  mother's  dislike  to  her  is  most  unaccount- 
able. 

Capt.  Eth.  There  is  the  difficulty  which  I  am  most  anxious 


152  Olla  Podrida 

to  surmount.  I  am  afraid  that,  without  my  mother's  con- 
currence, Lucy  will  never  consent  to  enter  into  the  familyo 
She  has  pride  as  well  as  Lady  Etheridge. 

Adm.  Yes,  but  of  a  very  different  quality;  a  proper  pride, 
Edward  \  a  respect  for  herself,  added  to  a  little  feeling,  to 
which  she  adheres  in  the  decayed  state  of  her  family,  which 
once  was  superior  to  ours. 

Capt,  Eth,  If  my  mother  could  but  once  be  induced  to 
suppose  that  this  rumour  is  correct,  we  might  obtain  her 
unwilling  consent. 

Adm,  The  report  I  believe  to  be  wholly  without  founda- 
tion, and  so  I  would,  even  if  it  were  given  against  us  in  a 
court  of  justice. 

Capt,  Eth.  My  opinion  coincides  with  yours.  But  my 
happiness  is  at  stake,  and  I,  therefore,  shall  not  pause  at  a 
trifling  deception,  which  may  be  productive  of  so  much 
good.     Will  you  assist  me  ? 

Adm.  "Why,  Edward,  can't  you  manage  without  me  ? 

Capt.  Eth.  Not  very  well.  Let  me  entreat  you.  I  hear 
my  mother  coming. 

Adm.  "Well,  well — she  is  always  asserting  I  deceive  her 
when  I  don't — for  once,  I'll  not  be  accused  without  a 
cause. 

Enter  Lady  Etheridge  ;  they  pretend  not  to  see  her. 

Capt.  Eth.  {Aside.)  Now,  sir.  {Aloud.)  The  proofs  are, 
indeed,  too  strong,  my  dear  sir,  to  hope  for  any  other  issue, 
and  I  regret  that  we  have  all  been  so  long  and  so  cruelly 
deceived. 

Adm.  "Well,  Edward,  I  can  only  say,  if  you  are  not  really 
my  son,  you  will  always  be  considered  as  such ;  for, 
whether  your  name  be  Etheridge  or  Bargrove,  you  must 
still  look  upon  me  as  your  father. 

Capt.  Eth.  I  thank  you,  sir  ;  but  there  are  circumstances 
over  which  you  have  no  control.  The  title  and  estate 
must  descend  to  the  lawful  heir  ;  and  that  silly  fellow, 
Peter,  will  in  future  claim  the  affections  of  yourself,  and  oiF 


The  Gipsy  153 

my  dear  Lady  Etheridge.  It  is  on  her  account,  more  than 
my  own,  that  I  feel  so  much  distressed. 

Lady  Eth,  {coming  forward).  What  Is  this  that  I  hear  ? 
Is  there  then  any  foundation  for  that  vile  report  ?  that 
hideous  tale  that  turned  the  brain  of  that  silly  wretch  ? 
{The  Admiral  shakes  his  head  in  mournful  silence.^  Edward, 
will  you  not  answer  me  ? 

Capt,  Eth,  I'm  afraid  that  my  answer  will  be  most 
unsatisfactory.  Madam,  I  had  my  doubts :  indeed,  I 
spurned  the  idea,  until  I  called  upon  Lucy  Etheridge — I 
believe  I  must  call  her  now — and  the  proofs  which  she  can 
bring  forward. 

Lady  Eth,  The  hussy  ! 

Capt,  Eth.  Nay,  my  lady,  I  must  do  justice  to  her.  She 
is  more  inclined  to  conceal  the  facts  than  to  disclose  them. 
Her  regard  for  my  father,  her  profound  respect  for  you,  and 
a  certain  feeling  of  good- will  towards  me 

Lady  Eth.  Well,  I  am  glad  to  see  a  little  good  sense 
In  the  girl  j  indeed,  if  the  Admiral  had  not  spoilt 
her 

Adm,  Lady  Etheridge,  I  have  always  felt  towards  that 
girl  as  my  own  daughter.  It's  very  odd.  Do  you  think, 
Edward,  that  this  matter  could  not  be  hushed  up  ? 

Capt,  Eth.  I  know  but  of  one  way,  sir,  which  is,  to 
sacrifice  myself  for  the  welfare  of  the  family.  I  will  do  it 
— I  may  say,  almost  willingly, 

Adm.  How  is  that,  Edward  ? 

Capt,  Eth.  By  a  marriage  with  Lucy. 

Lady  Eth.  Never  ! 

Capt.  Eth.  Who  will  then,  for  her  own  sake,  keep  the 
proofs  In  her  possession. 

Lady.  Eth.  Never  !  never  !     I  cannot  consent  to  it. 

Capt.  Eth.  May  I  ask,  my  dear  Lady  Etheridge,  if  you 
refuse  me  as  your  son,  or  is  Lucy  refused  to  me  as  your 
daughter  ? 

Lady  Eth.  Oh  ! 

Capt.  Eth.  And  again,  my  dear  madam,  when  you  reflect, 
on  the  establishment  of  these  facts  by  undoubted  proofs. 


154  0\h  Podrida 

that  booby,  Peter,  will  have  a  right  to  claim  your  maternal 
kindness. 

Lady  Eth,  Odious  wretch  ! 

Capt.  Eth,  To  occupy  that  place  in  your  affections  which, 
hitherto,  I  have  so  proudly  held,  and  must  surrender  with 
such  deep  regret. 

Lady  Eth,  I  would  consent  to — submit  to  anything, 
rather  than  that  monster  should  dare  to  call  me  mother, 

Capt,  Eth.  Yet  so  he  will,  madam,  without  you  consent 
to  the  proposed  arrangement.  Lucy  has  always  treated  you 
with  respect,  and  expressed  the  warmest  gratitude  for  your 
protection  ;  but,  as  for  Peter,  he  will  be  more  bearish  and 
insolent  than  ever,  again  smother  you  with  his  nauseous 
kisses,  and  claim  them  as  an  offspring's  right. 

Lady  Eth.  I  really  feel  quite  ill  again  at  the  very  idea. 
Save  me  from  that,  and  I'll  consent  to  anything. 

Capt,  Eth,  Well,  then,  madam,  have  I  your  permission  ? 

Enter   William. 

Will,  Please,  Sir  Gilbert,  here  be  Mr  Bargrove,  and 
Madam  Bargrove  and  Miss  Lucy,  and  the  constables,  and 
the  malefactors,  coming  up  to  prove  the  whole  truth  of  the 
consarn,  to  your's  and  my  lady's  satisfaction. 

Lady  Eth.  I'll  not  see  them.     I  must  leave  you. 

Capt,  Eth.  Nay,  madam,  stay  but  one  moment,  and 
acquaint  Lucy  that  you  give  your  consent.  She  may  not 
believe  me. 

Enter  Old  Bargrove,  Lucy,  Constables,  and  Nelly. 

Old  Bar.  Your  servant,  my  lady;  your  servant.  Sir 
Gilbert.  I've  got  the  whole  story  out  at  last.  I  have 
brought  up  Lucy,  who  will  prove  the  facts.  My  son  Peter, 
I  have  sent  after,  and  I  took  the  liberty  to  tell  the  servant 
that  Miss  Agnes  would  be  necessary. 

Capt  Eth.  {leading  up  Lucy  to  Lady  Etheridge).  Lady 
Etheridge,  will  you  honour  us  so  far  as  to  give  your  con- 
sent ?  {Lady  Etheridge  hesitates.^  My  dear  madam,  recollect 
the  circumstances. 


The  Gipsy  155 

Enter  Peter, 

Adm,  Come,  Lady  Etheridge,  they  have  mine,  and  your's 
must  not  be  refused. 

Peter,  Sir  Gilbert,  I  am  your*s  (seeing  Nelly).  Oh,  you're 
here — then  all's  right,  and  so  I  don't  care,  {Advancing  to- 
•wards  Lady  Etheridge,)  Lady  Etheridge,  my  dear  mamma, 
with  your  permission 

Lady  Eth.  (hastily  joining  the  hands  of  Captain  Etheridge 
and  Lucy),     Yes,  Lucy,  I  consent.  [Exit  hastily, 

Capt,  Eth.  Thank  you,  Peter,  you  never  did  me  so  good 
a  turn  in  your  life. 

Peter,  Sir  Gilbert,  injustice  to  yourself,  read  this,  and 
do  not  despise  the  caution,  for  it  is  all  true.  {Gives  the 
letter,) 

Adm,  How  do  you  know  ?  {Reads.)  *'  Your  house 
will  be  robbed  this  night — the  parties  are  well  armed  and 
resolute.  Take  immediate  precautions,  and  despise  not  this 
warning  from  one  who  has  a  sincere  regard  for  you,  and 
for  your  family." 

Capt.  Eth.  A  friendly  caution,  sir.  It  must  be  attended  to. 
The  favour  is  intended  us  by  the  gang  of  gipsies  in  the 
wood.     Perhaps  this  woman  may  know  something  about  it. 

Old  Bar.  Like  enough,  for  we  have  an  old  acquaintance 
here,  who  knows  every  part  of  the  Hall.  This  is  Nelly 
Armstrong,  who  nursed  Lucy. 

Mrs,  Bar.  I'll  swear  to  her,  and  it  is  she  who  has  been 
the  occasion  of  all  this  mischief. 

Enter  Agnes  and  Capt.  Mertoim. 

Agnes.  My  dear  Lucy  !  I  did  not  know  that  you  were 
here.     {Turtiiftg  to  Nelly.) 

Nelly.  Yes,  Miss  Agnes,  the  gipsy  woman  that  told  you 
your  fortune,  and,  as  Mrs  Bargrove  states,  nursed  you. 
Miss  Lucy,  at  her  breast.  Sir  Gilbert,  I  will  save  you 
trouble  by  confessing,  that  all  I  told  these  young  people 
was  from  a  feeling  of  revenge  towards  Lady  Etheridge, 
who  spurned  me  from  her  door.     My  long  residence  in  the 


156  Olla  Podrida 

family  enabled  me  to  give  a  show  of  truth  to  what  has 
occasioned  so  much  uneasiness. 

Peter,  What  !  ar'n't  it  all  true,  then  ? 

Nelly,  Not  one  word,  Mr  Peter. 

Old  Bar.  Then  we  must  have  you  to  Bridewell. 

Nelly,  I  trust,  Sir  Gilbert,  you  will  be  merciful,  for 
I  have  proved  my  strong  regard  to  your  family. 

Adm.  What,  by  making  us  all  miserable  ? 

Nelly,  Sir  Gilbert,  by  that  letter  in  your  hand,  that  I 
wrote,  little  expecting  that  I  should  ever  appear  before 
you. 

Peter,  O,  the  letter  is  true,  then  ! 

Adm.  (holding  up  his  cane).  Silence,  sir  ! 

Old  Bar.  {holding  up  his  stick).  Yes,  silence,  sir  ! 

Nelly.  I  know.  Sir  Gilbert,  that  you  have  too  kind  a 
heart  to  injure  any  one ;  and,  if  repentance  for  my  folly 
and  wickedness  can — if  you,  Miss  Lucy,  will  plead  for  me — 
and  my  letter.  Sir  Gilbert,  ought  to  plead  for  me  too — all 
I  beg  is,  that  you  will  place  me  in  a  situation  to  keep  my 
good  resolutions. 

Capt.  Eth.  Lucy  will  plead  for  her,  sir,  and  so  do  I, 
for  to  her  I  owe  my  present  happiness. 

Adm.  Well,  well,  woman,  it  shall  be  your  own  fault  if 
you  do  wrong  again. 

Nelly  (curtseying.)  Then  let  me  beg  pardon  of  all  those 
to  whom  I  have  occasioned  uneasiness. 

Adm.  Well,  it's  all  settled  now,  except  the  affair 
of  the  letter,  which  we  must  attend  to,  Bargrove. 

Capt.  Mer.  Not  quite  all,  sir  ,  here  are  two  who  wish 
for  your  sanction. 

Adm.  Hah !  Is  it  so,  Agnes  ?  In  this  instance  I  may 
safely  join  your  hands  for  your  mother,  for  this  morning 
she  expressed  a  wish  that  it  might  be  so.  At  the  same 
time,  Mr  and  Mrs  Bargrove,  I  must  request  your  sanction 
for  the  choice  that  my  son  has  made.  He  has  already 
secured  mine  and  that  of  Lady  Etheridge. 

Mrs  Bar,  (wiping  her  eyes.)  This  is  indeed  a  joyous  end 
to  all  my  vexations. 


The  Gipsy  157 

Nelly  {with  emotion.)  May  heaven  bless  your  union,  my 
dear  Miss  Lucy  ! 

Old  Bar.  God  bless  you  both !  Now,  with  your  per- 
mission. Sir  Gilbert,  I  will  resign  my  office  of  steward. 
For  many  years  I  have  filled  it  through  gratitude,  and  not 
from  any  wish  of  emolument.  I  have  enough  to  portion 
my  daughter,  and  even  to  make  that  foolish  boy  a  gentle- 
man, according  to  his  notions  of  gentility. 

Peter.  Have  you,  my  dear  father  ?  Then  I  am  glad  that 
I  was  not  changed.  But  I  say,  Etheridge,  I'm  your 
brother-in-law.  Indeed  you've  a  strong  hand,  brother 
Edward. 

Capt.  Eth.  There,  Peter,  take  it  in  friendship.  (Shake 
hands.) 

Adm.  And  mine. 

Capt.  Mer.  Peter,  mine. 

Old  Bar.  Well,  I  suppose,  Peter,  I  must  do  the  same, 
and  forget  and  forgive. 

Mrs  Bar.  And  me,  Peter.  {Peter  jumps  up^  clasps  her 
round  the  neck,  and  gives  her  a  hearty  kiss.)  The  boy's  heart 
is  right  after  all. 

Adm.  Thus,  then,  do  all  our  vexations  end  in  happiness, 
and  may  we  be  allowed  to  indulge  the  hope  that  the  same 
may  prove  the  case  with  all  the  parties  {bowing  to  the 
audience)  who  have  honoured  us  with  their  presence. 

[Curtain  foils. 


ILL-WILL: 

i\N    ACTING    CHARADE 


DRAMATIS  PERSONiE. 

Mr  Cadaverous,  Jln  old  misery  very  rich  and  very  HL 
Edward,  A  young  la-wyer  ivithout  a  brief. 
Mr  Haustus  Gum  Arabic,  Apothecary. 
Seedy,  Solicitor. 

Thomas  Montagu,  \ 

>  Nephews  to  Mr  Cadaverous. 
John  Montagu,        J 

James  Sterling,        ) 

>  Nephews  twice  removed  to  Mr  Cadaverous 
William  Sterling,  j 

Clementina  Montagu,  Niece  to  Mr  Cadaverous. 
Mrs  Jellybags,  Housekeeper  and  nurse. 


i6o 


Ill-will 


Act  L 

Scene. — A  sick  room. — Mr  Cadaverous  in  an  easy  chair  asleep, 
supported  by  cushions,  ^wrapped  up  in  his  dressing-goivn,  a 
night-cap  oft  his  head. — A  small  table  ivith  phials,  gallipots, 
l^c. — Jldrs  Jellybags  seated  on  a  chair  close  to  the  table. 

Mrs  Jellybags  {looks  at  Mr  Cadaverous,  and  then  comes 
forward').  He  sleeps  yet — the  odious  old  miser  !  Mercy 
on  me,  how  I  do  hate  him, — almost  as  much  as  he  loves 
his  money  !  Well,  there's  one  comfort,  he  cannot  take  his 
money-bags  with  him,  and  the  doctor  says  that  he  cannot 
last  much  longer.  Ten  years  have  I  been  his  slave — ten 
years  have  I  been  engaged  to  be  married  to  Sergeant- 
Major  O'Callaghan  of  the  Blues — ten  years  has  he  kept  me 
waiting  at  the  porch  of  Hymen, — and  what  thousands  of 
couples  have  I  seen  enter  during  the  time  !  Oh  dear  !  it's 
enough  to  drive  a  widow  mad.  I  think  I  have  managed  it ; 
— he  has  now  quarrelled  with  all  his  relations,  and  Doctor 
Gumarabic  intends  this  day  to  suggest  the  propriety  of  his 
making  his  last  will  and  testament.  [Mr  Cadaverous,  still 
asleep,  coughs.']  He  is  waking.  (Looks  at  him.)  No,  he  is 
not.  Well,  then,  I  shall  wake  him,  and  give  him  a  draught, 
for,  after  such  a  comfortable  sleep  as  he  is  now  in,  he 
might  last  a  whole  week  longer.  (Goes  up  to  Mr  Cadaverous, 
and  shakes  him). 

Mr  Cad.  (starting  up.)  Ugh !  ugh !  ugh !  (coughs 
violently.)     Oh  !   Mrs  Jellybags,  I'm  so  ill.     Ugh  !   ugh  ! 

Jel.  My  dear,  dear  sir!  now  don't  say  so.  I  was  in 
hopes,  after  such  a  nice  long  sleep  you  would  have  found 
yourself  so  much  better. 


1 62  Olla  Podrida 

Cad.  Long  sleep  !  oh  dear  ! — I'm  sure  I've  not  slept  ten 
minutes. 

Jel.  {Aside.)  I  know  that.  {Aloud^  Indeed,  my  dear 
sir,  you  are  mistaken.  Time  passes  very  quick  when  we 
are  fast  asleep.  I  have  been  watching  you  and  keeping 
the  flies  off.  But  you  must  now  take  your  draught,  my 
dear  sir,  and  your  pill  first. 

Cad.  What !  more  pills  and  more  draughts  !  Why, 
there's  no  end  to  them. 

Jel.  Yes,  there  will  be,  by-and-bye,  my  dear  sir.  You 
know  Doctor  Gumarabic  has  ordered  you  to  take  one  pill 
and  one  draught  every  half-hour. 

Cad.  And  so  I  have — never  missed  one  for  the  last  six 
weeks  —  woke  up  for  them  day  and  night.  I  feel  very 
weak — very  weak,  indeed !  Don't  you  think  I  might  eat 
something,  my  dear  Mrs  Jellybags  } 

Jel.  Eat,  my  dear  Mr  Cadaverous  ! — how  can  you  ask 
me,  when  you  know  that  Doctor  Gumarabic  says  that 
it  would  be  the  death  of  you  ? 

Cad.  Only  the  wing  of  a  chicken,— or  a  bit  of  the 
breast 

Jel.  Impossible ! 

Cad.  A  bit  of  dry  toast,  then  ;  anything,  my  dear  Mrs 
Jellybags.     I've  such  a  gnawing.     Ugh  !  ugh  ! 

Jel.  My  dear  sir,  you  would  die  if  you  swallowed  the 
least  thing  that's  nourishing. 

Cad.  I'm  sure  I  shall  die  if  I  do  not.  Well,  then,  a 
little  soup — I  should  like  that  very  much  indeed. 

Jel.  Soup  !  it  would  be  poison,  my  dear  sir !  No,  no. 
You  must  take  your  pill  and  your  draught. 

Cad.  Oh  dear  !  oh  dear  ! — Forty-eight  pills  and  forty- 
eight  draughts  every  twenty-four  hours ! — not  a  wink 
of  sleep  day  or  night. 

Jel.  {soothingly.)  But  it's  to  make  you  well,  you  know, 
my  dear  Mr  Cadaverous.  Come,  now.  {Hands  him  a  pill 
and  some  luater  in  a  tumbler.) 

Cad.  The  last  one  is  hardly  down  yet ; — I  feel  it  stick- 
ing half-way.     Ugh  !  ugh  ! 


Ill-Wiil  163 

JeL  Then  wash  them  both  down  at  once.     Come,  now, 
'tis  to  make  you  well,  you  know. 

^Cadaverous  takes  the  pill  ivith  a   ivry  face,  and 
coughs  it  up  again. 
Cad.  Ugh  I    ugh  !     There — it's    up    again.     Oh    dear  ! 
oh  dear  ! 

Jel.  You  must  take  it,  my  dear  sir.    Come,  now,  try  again. 
Cad.  (coughing.)  My  cough  is  so  bad.     (Takes  the  pill.) 
Oh,  my  poor  head  !  Now  I'll  lie  down  again. 

Jel.  Not  yet,  my  dear  Mr  Cadaverous.     You  must  take 
your  draught ; — it's  to  make  you  well,  you  know. 

Cad.  What !  another  draught  ?     I'm   sure  I  must  have 
twenty  draughts  in  my  inside,  besides  two  boxes  of  pills  ! 
JeL  Come,  now — it  will  be  down  in  a  minute. 

[Cadaverous  takes  the  nvine-glass  in  his  hand,  and 
looks  at  it  ivith  abhorrence. 
Jel.  Come,  now. 

[Cadaverous  swallows  the  draught,  and  feels  very 

sick,  puts  his  handkerchief  to  his  mouth,  and, 

after   a   time,   sinks  hack   in   the  chair  quite 

exhausted,  and  shuts  his  eyes. 

Jel.  (Aside.)  I  wish  the  doctor  would  come.     It's  high 

time  that  he  made  his  will. 

Cad.  (drawing  up  his  leg.)     Oh  !   oh  !   oh  ! 
Jel.  What's  the  matter,  my  dear  Mr  Cadaverous  ? 
Cad.  Oh  !   such  pain  ! — oh  !  rub  it,  Mrs  Jellybags. 
Jel.  What,  here,  my  dear  sir  ?     (Rubs  his  knee.) 
Cad.  No,  no  ! — not  there  ! — Oh,  my  hip  ! 
Jel.  What,  here  ?  (Rubs  his  hip.) 
Cad.  No,  no  ! — higher — higher  !     Oh,  my  side  ! 
Jel.  What,  here  ?  (Rubs  his  side.) 
Cad.  No  ! — lower  ! 
Jel.  Here  ?  (Rubbing.) 

Cad.  No  ! — higher  ! — Oh,  my  chest  ! — my  stomach  !  Oh 
dear ! — oh  dear  ! 

Jel.  Are  you  better  now,  my  dear  sir  ? 
Cad.  Oh  dear  !  oh  !    I  do  believe  that  I  shall  die  !     I've 
been  a  very  wicked  man,  I'm  afraid 


164  Olla  Podrida 

JeL  Don't  say  so,  Mr  Cadaverous.  Every  one  but  your 
nephews  and  nieces  say  that  you  are  the  best  man  in  the 
world. 

Cad,  Do  they  ?  I  was  afraid  that  I  had  not  been  quite 
so  good  as  they  think  T  am. 

JeL  Fd  like  to  hear  any  one  say  to  the  contrary.  Fd 
tear  their  eyes  out, — that  I  would. 

Cad,  You  are  a  good  woman,  Mrs  Jellybags  ;  and  I 
shall  not  forget  you  in  my  will. 

JeL  Don't  mention  wills,  my  dear  sir.  You  make  me 
so  miserable.     (^Puts  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.) 

Cad.  Don't  cry,  Mrs  Jellybags.  I  wo'n't  talk  any  more 
about  it.     (^Sinks  bach  exhausted.) 

JeL  {wiping  her  eyes.)     Here  comes  Doctor  Gumarabic. 

Enter  Gumarabic. 

Gum.  Good  morning.  Mistress  Jellybags.  Well,  how's 
our  patient  ? — better  ? — heh  ? 

[Mrs  Jellybags  shakes  her  head. 

Gum.  No  :  well,  that's  odd.  (Goes  up  to  Mr  Cadaverous.) 
Not  better,  my  dear  sir  ? — don't  you  feel  stronger  .? 

Cad,  {faintly).  Oh,  no  1 

Gum.  Not  stronger !  Let  us  feel  the  pulse.  [Mrs 
Jellybags  hands  a  chair,  and  Gumarabic  sits  down,  pulls  out  his 
watch,  and  counts?^  Intermittent — 1 35 — well,  now — that's 
very  odd  !  Mrs  Jellybags,  have  you  adhered  punctually 
to  my  prescriptions  ? 

JeL  Oh  yes,  sir,  exactly. 

Gum.  He  has  eaten  nothing  ? 

Cad.  Nothing  at  all. 

Gum.  And  don't  feel  stronger  ?  Odd — very  odd  !  Pray, 
has  he  had  anything  in  the  way  of  drink?  Come,  Mrs 
Jellybags,  no  disguise, — tell  the  truth  5 — no  soup — warm 
jelly — heh  ? 

JeL  No,  sir  ;  upon  my  word,  he  has  had  nothing. 

Gum.  Humph  ! — and  yet  feels  no  stronger  }  Well,  that's 
odd  ! — Has  he  taken  the  pill  every  half-hour  ? 

JeL  Yes,  sir,  regularly. 


Ill-Will  165 

Gum.  And  feels  no  better !  Are  you  sure  that  he  has 
had  his  draught  with  his  pill  ? 

Jel.  Every  time,  sir. 

Gum.  And  feels  no  better  !  Well,  that's  odd  ! — very 
odd,  indeed  !  (Rises  and  comes  for  ivard  ivith  Mrs  Jellybags.^ 
"We  must  throw  in  some  more  draughts,  Mrs  Jellybags  ; 
there  is  no  time  to  be  lost. 

Jel.  I'm  afraid  he's  much  worse,  sir. 

Gum.  I  am  not  at  all  afraid  of  it,  Mrs  Jellybags, — I  am 
sure  of  it  j — it's  very  odd, — but  the  fact  is,  that  all  the 
physic  in  the  world  won't  save  him ;  but  still  he  must  take 
it, — because — physic  was  made  to  be  taken. 

Jel.  Very  true,  sir.     (Whispers  to  Gumarabic^ 

Gum.  Ah  !  yes; — very  proper.  (Going  to  Mr  Cadaverous.) 
My  dear  sir,  I  have  done  my  best  -,  nevertheless,  you  are 
ill, — very  ill, — which  is  odd, — very  odd  !  It  is  not 
pleasant, — I  may  say,  very  unpleasant, — but  if  you  have 
any  little  worldly  affairs  to  settle, — will  to  make, — or  a 
codicil  to  add,  in  favour  of  your  good  nurse,  your  doctor, 
or  so  on, — it  might  be  as  well  to  send  for  your  lawyer ; — 
there  is  no  saying,  but,  during  my  practice,  I  have  some- 
times found  that  people  die.  After  all  the  physic  you  have 
taken,  it  certainly  is  odd — very  odd — very  odd,  indeed  ; 
— but  you  might  die  to-morrow. 

Cad.  Oh  dear  ! — I'm  very  ill. 

Jel.  (sobbing.)  Oh  dear  !  oh  dear  ! — he's  very  ill. 

Gum.  (comes  for  ivard,  shrugging  up  his  shoulders.)  Yes; 
he  is  ill — very  ill ; — to-morrow,  dead  as  mutton  !  At  all 
events  he  has  not  died  for  want  of  physic.  We  must 
throw  in  some  more  draughts  immediately  j — no  time  to  be 
lost.     Life  is  short, — but  my  bill  will  be  long — very  long ! 

[Exit  as  scene  closes. 

Act  II.      Scene  I. 

Enter  Clementina,  ivith  a  letter  in  her  hand. 
Clem.  I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  my  dear  Edward: 


1 66  Olla  Podrida 

he  knows  of  my  uncle's  danger,  and  is  anxious  to  see  me. 
I  expect  him  immediately.  I  hope  he  will  not  be  seen  by 
Mrs  Jellybags  as  he  comes  in,  for  she  would  try  to  make 
more  mischief  than  she  has  already.  Dear  Edward !  how 
he  loves  me  !   {Kisses  the  letter.) 

Enter  Edivard, 

Edw.  My  lovely,  my  beautiful,  my  adored  Clementina ! 
I  have  called  upon  Mr  Gumarabic,  who  tells  me  that  your 
uncle  cannot  live  through  the  twenty-four  hours,  and  I 
have  flown  here,  my  sweetest,  dearest,  to — to 

Clem,  To  see  me,  Edward :  surely  there  needs  no  excuse 
for  coming  ? 

Edw.  To  reiterate  my  ardent,  pure,  and  unchangeable 
affection,  my  dearest  Clementina;  to  assure  you,  that  in 
sickness  or  in  health,  for  richer  or  for  poorer,  for  better 
or  for  worse,  as  they  say  in  the  marriage  ceremony,  I  am 
yours  till  death  us  do  part. 

Clem.  I  accept  the  vow,  dearest  Edv/ard.  You  know 
too  well  my  heart  for  me  to  say  more. 

Ed%u.  I  do  know  your  heart,  Clementina,  as  it  is, — nor 
do  I  think  it  possible  that  you  could  change ; — still,  some- 
times— that  is  for  a  moment  when  I  call  to  mind  that,  by 
your  uncle's  death,  as  his  favourite  niece,  living  with  him 
for  so  many  years,  you  may  soon  find  yourself  in  the 
possession  of  thousands, — and  that  titled  men  may  lay 
their  coronets  at  your  feet, — then,  Clementina 

Clem.  Ungenerous  and  unkind  ! — Edward,  I  almost  hate 
you.  Is  a  little  money,  then,  to  sway  my  affections  ? 
Shame,  Edward,  shame  on  you  !  Is  such  your  opinion  of 
my  constancy  ?  {Weeps.)  You  must  judge  me  by  your 
own  heart. 

Edw.  Clementina  !  dearest  Clementina  ! — I  did  ! — but 
rather — that  is, — I  was  not  in  earnest ; — but  when  we 
value  any  object  as  I  value  you, — it  may  be  forgiven,  if  I 
feel  at  times  a  little  jealous  j — yes,  dearest,  jealous  ! 

Clem.  ^Twas  jealousy  then,  Edward,  which  made  you  so 
unkind  ?     Well,  then,  I  can  forgive  that. 


Ill-Will  167 

Edw.  Nothing  but  jealousy,  dearest !  I  cannot  help,  at 
times,  representing  you  surrounded  by  noble  admirers, — 
ail  of  them  suing  to  you, — not  for  yourself,  but  for  your 
money, — tempting  you  with  their  rank  ; — and  it  makes  me 
jealous,  horribly  jealous  !  I  cannot  compete  with  lords, 
Clementina, — a  poor  barrister  without  a  brief. 

Clem.  I  have  loved  you  for  yourself,  Edward.  I  trust 
you  have  done  the  same  toward  me. 

Edw.  Yes ;  upon  my  soul,  my  Clementina  ! 

Clem.  Then  my  uncle's  disposition  of  his  property  will 
make  no  difference  in  me.  For  your  sake,  my  dear  Edward, 
I  hope  he  will  not  forget  me.  What's  that  ?  Mrs  Jelly- 
bags  is  coming  out  of  the  room.  Haste,  Edward; — you 
must  not  be  seen  here.  Away,  dearest ! — and  may  God 
bless  you. 

Edw,  {kisses  her  hand.)  Heaven  preserve  my  adored, 
my  matchless,  ever-to-be-loved  Clementina. 

\Exeu?it  separately. 

Scene  II. 

The  sich-room — Mr  Cadaverous,  lying  on  a  sofa-bed — Mr  Seedy, 
the  laijjyer,  sitting  by  his  side,  ivith  papers  on  the  table 
before  him. 

Seedy.  I  believe  now,  sir,  that  everything  is  arranged 
in  your  will  according  to  your  instructions.  Shall  I  read 
it  over  again ;  for  although  signed  and  witnessed,  you 
may  make  any  alteration  you  please  by  a  codicil. 

Cad.  No,  no.  You  have  read  it  twice,  Mr  Seedy,  and 
you  may  leave  me  now.  I  am  ill,  very  ill,  and  wish  to 
be  alone. 

Seedy  {fids  up  his  papers  and  rises.)  I  take  my  leave, 
Mr  Cadaverous,  trusting  to  be  long  employed  as  your 
solicitor. 

Cad.  Afraid  not,  Mr  Seedy.  Lawyers  have  no  great 
interest  in  heaven.  Your  being  my  solicitor  will  not 
help  me  there. 

Seedy  {coming  forward  as  he  goes  out.)     Not   a   sixpence 


i68  Olla  Podrida 

to  his  legal  adviser !     Well,  well !  I  know  how  to  make 
out  a  bill  for  the  executors. 

[Exit  Seedy,  and  enter  Mrs  Jellyhags, 

J  el,  (^ith  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes  J)  Oh  dear !  oh 
dear !  oh,  Mr  Cadaverous,  how  can  you  fatigue  and 
annoy  yourself  with  such  things  as  wills  ? 

Cad,  {faintly,)  Don't  cry,  Mrs  Jellybags.  I've  not 
forgotten  you. 

Jel,  {sobbing,)  I  can't — help— crying.  And  there's 
Miss  Clementina, — now  that  you  are  dying, — who  insists 
upon  coming  in  to  see  you. 

Cad,  Clementina,  my  niece,  let  her  come  in,  Mrs 
Jellybags  •,  I  feel  I'm  going  fast, — I  may  as  well  take 
leave  of  everybody. 

Jel.  {sobbing,)  Oh  dear  !  oh  dear !  You  may  come  in, 
Miss. 

Enter  Clementina, 

Clem.  My  dear  uncle,  why  have  you,  for  so  many  days, 
refused  me  admittance  ?  Every  morning  have  I  asked  to 
be  allowed  to  come  and  nurse  you,  and  for  more  than 
three  weeks  have  received  a  positive  refusal. 

Cad,  Refusal !     Why  I  never  had  a  message  from  you. 

Clem.  No  message  !  Every  day  I  have  sent,  and  every 
day  did  Mrs  Jellybags  reply  that  you  would  not  see  me. 

Cad.  {faintly.)  Mrs  Jellybags, — Mrs  Jellybags 

Clem.  Yes,  uncle ;  it  is  true  as  I  stand  here  5 — and  my 
brother  Thomas  has  called  almost  every  day,  and  John 
every  Sunday,  the  only  day  he  can  leave  the  banking- 
house  •,  and  cousins  William  and  James  have  both  been 
here  very  often. 

Cad.  Nobody  told  me  !  I  thought  everyone  had  forgotten 
me.     Why  was  I  not  informed,  Mrs  Jellybags  ? 

Jel,  {in  a  rage,)  Why,  you  little  story-telling  creature, 
coming  here  to  impose  upon  your  good  uncle !  You 
know  that  no  one  has  been  here — not  a  soul ; — and  as 
for  yourself,  you  have  been  too  busy  looking  after  a 
certain  gentleman  ever  to   think   of  your  poor   uncle  5 — 


Ill-WiU  169 

that  you  have  ; — taking  advantage  of  his  illness  to  behave 
in  so  indecorous  a  manner.  I  would  have  told  him  every- 
thing, but  I  was  afraid  of  making  him  worse. 

Clem,  You  are  a  false,  wicked  woman  ! 

Jel.  Little  impudent  creature, — trying  to  make  mischief 
between  me  and  my  kind  master,  but  it  won't  do.  {To 
Clementina  aside.)  The  will  is  signed,  and  FU  take  care 
he  does  not  alter  it  •, — so  do  your  worst. 

Cad.  (faintly.)     Give  me  the  mixture,  Mrs 

Clem.  I  will,  dear  uncle.  {Pours  out  the  restorative  mix- 
ture in  a  glass.) 

Jel.  {going  back.)  You  will,  Miss  ! — indeed !  but  you 
shan't. 

Clem.  Be  quiet,  Mrs  Jellybags  ; — allow  me  at  least  to 
do  something  for  my  poor  uncle. 

Cad.   Give  me  the  mix 

Jel.  {prevents  Clementina  from  giving  it^  atid  tries  to  take  it 
from  her.)  You  shan't,  Miss  ! — You  never  shall. 

Cad.  Give  me  the 

\Mrs  Jellybags  and  Clementina  scuffle^  at  last  Clemen- 
tina throws  the  contents  of  the  glass  into  Mrs 
Jellybags  face. 

Clem.  There,  then  ! — since  you  will  have  it. 

Jel  {in  a  rage.)  You  little  minx  ! — I'll  be  revenged  for 
that.  Wait  a  little  till  the  will  is  read, — that's  all ! — See 
if  I  don't  bundle  you  out  of  doors, — that  I  will. 

Clem.  As  you  please,  Mrs  Jellybags  ;  but  pray,  give  my 
poor  uncle  his  restorative  mixture. 

Jel.  To  please  you  ? — Not  I  !  V\\  not  give  him  a  drop 
till  I  think  proper.     Little,  infamous,  good-for-nothing 

Cad.  Give  me oh  ! 

Jel.  Saucy — man-seeking 

Clem.  Oh  !  as  for  that,  Mrs  Jellybags,  the  big  sergeant 
was  here  last  night — I  know  that.     Talk  of  men,  indeed  ! 

Jel.  Very  well.  Miss  ! — very  well !  Stop  till  the  breath 
is  out  of  your  uncle's  body — and  I'll  beat  you  till  yours  is 
also. 

Cad.  Give oh! 


170  OUa  Podrida 

Clem.  My  poor  uncle  !  He  will  have  no  help  till  I  leave 
the  room — I  must  go.     Infamous  woman  !  [Exit, 

Cad,  Oh! 

Jel.  I'm  in  such  a  rage ! — I  could  tear  her  to  pieces  ! 
—the  little  ! — the  gnat !  Oh,  I'll  be  revenged  !  Stop 
till  the  will  is  read,  and  then  I'll  turn  her  out  into  the 
streets  to  starve.  Yes !  yes !  the  will ! — the  will ! 
{Pauses  and  pants  for  breath?)  Now,  I  recollect  the  old 
fellow  called  for  his  mixture.  I  must  go  and  get  some 
more.     I'll  teach  her  to  throw  physic  in  my  face. 

\Goes   out  and   returns  with  a  phial — pours  out  a 
portion  f  and  goes  up  to  Mr  Cadaverous. 

Jel.  Here,  my  dear  Mr  Cadaverous.  Mercy  on  me ! — 
Mr  Cadaverous  ! — why,  he's  fainted  ! — Mr  Cadaverous  ! 
{Screams.)  Lord  help  us  ! — why,  he's  dead  !  Well  now, 
this  sort  of  thing  does  give  one  a  shock,  even  when  one 
has  longed  for  it„  Yes,  he's  quite  dead !  {Coming 
forward.)  So,  there's  an  end  of  all  his  troubles — and, 
thank  Heaven !  of  mine  also.  Now  for  Sergeant-Major 
O'Callaghan,  and — love  I  Now  for  Miss  Clementina,  and 
— revenge  !     But  first  the  will ! — the  will ! 

[Curtain  drops. 

Act  III. 

Mrs  Jellybags. 

Oh  dear  ! — this  is  a  very  long  morning.  I  feel  such 
suspense  - —  such  anxiety ;  and  poor  Sergeant-Major 
O'Callaghan  is  quite  in  a  perspiration  !  He  is  drinking 
and  smoking  down  in  the  kitchen  to  pass  away  the  time, 
and  if  the  lawyer  don't  come  soon,  the  dear  man  will  be 
quite  fuddled.  He  talks  of  buying  a  farm  in  the  country. 
Well,  we  shall  see ;  but  if  the  Sergeant  thinks  that  he 
will  make  ducks  and  drakes  of  my  money,  he  is  mistaken. 
I  have  not  been  three  times  a  widow  for  nothing — I  will 
have  it  all  settled  upon  myself ;  that  must  and  shall  be,  or 
else — no  Sergeant  O'Callaghan  for  me  ! 


lU-Will  171 


Enter  Clementina, 

So,  here  you  are,  Miss.  Well,  we'll  wait  till  the  will 
is  read,  and  then  v/e  shall  see  who  is  mistress  here. 

Clem.  I  am  as  anxious  as  you,  Mrs  Jellybags.  You 
may  have  wheedled  my  poor  uncle  to  make  the  will  in 
your  favour ;  if  so,  depend  upon  it,  I  shall  expect  nothing 
from  your  hands. 

Jel.  I  should  rather  think  not.  Miss.  If  I  recollect 
right,  you  threw  the  carminative  mixture  in  my  face. 

Clem.  And  made  you  blush  for  the  first  time  in  your 
life. 

Jel.  I  shall  not  blush  to  slam  the  door  in  your  face. 

Clem.  Rather  than  be  indebted  to  you,  I  would  beg  my 
bread  from  door  to  door. 

Jel.  I  expect  that  you  very  soon  will. 

Enter  EdiuarcL 

Edw.  My  dearest  Clementina,  I  have  come  to  support 
you  on  this  trying  occasion. 

Jel.  And  ascertain  how  matters  stand,  before  you  decide 
upon  marrying,  I  presume,  Mr  Edward. 

Ediv.  Madam,  I  am  above  all  pecuniary  considerations. 

Jel.  So  everybody  says,  when  they  think  themselves 
sure  of  money. 

Ediju.  You  judge  of  others  by  yourself. 

Jel.  Perhaps  I  do — I  certainly  do  expect  to  be  rewarded 
for  my  long  and  faithful  services. 

Clem.  Do  not  waste  words  upon  her,  my  dear.  You  have 
my  solemn  promise,  nothing  shall  change  my  feelings 
towards  you. 

Jel.  That  may  be ;  but  did  it  never  occur  to  you,  Miss, 
that  the  gentleman's  feeHngs  might  alter  ? 

Edw.  Detestable  wretch  ! 

[Hands  Clementina  to  a  chair   on   the  rights  and 
sits  by  her. 


172  Olla  Podrida 

Enter  Nephews  John,  Thomas,  William,  and  James y  all  with 
white  pochet-handher chiefs  in  their  hand — they  take  their 
seats  two  right  and  two  left. 

Jel.  (Aside,)  Here  they  all  come,  like  crows  that  smell 
carrion.  How  odious  is  the  selfishness  of  this  world! 
But  here  is  Mr  Gumarabic.  How  do  you  do,  sir  ? 
(Curtsies  with  a  grave  air.) 

Gum.  Very  well,  I  thank  you,  Mrs  Jellybags.  Can't 
say  the  same  of  all  my  patients.  Just  happened  to  pass  by — 
thought  I  would  step  in  and  hear  the  will  read — odd,  that 
I  should  pop  in  at  the  time — very  odd.  Pray,  may  I  ask, 
my  dear  Mrs  Jellybags,  were  you  present  at  the  making  of 
the  will  ? 

Jel.  No,  my  dear  sir  ;  my  nerves  would  not  permit  me. 

Gum.  Nerves  ! — odd,  very  odd  !  Then  you  don't  know 
how  things  are  settled  ? 

Jel.  No  more  than  the  man  in  the  moon,  my  dear  sir. 

Gum.  Man  in  the  moon  ! — odd  comparison  that  from  a 
woman  ! — very  odd  !  Hope  my  chance  won't  prove  all 
moonshine. 

Jel.  I  should  think  not,  my  dear  sir  ;  but  here  comes 
Mr  Seedy,  and  we  shall  soon  know  all  about  it. 

Enter  Mr  Seedy — Mrs  Jellybags,  all  courtesy,  waves  her  hand 
to  a  chair  in  the  ce7itre,  with  a  table  before  it.  Mr  Seedy 
sits  down,  pulls  the  will  out  of  his  pockety  lays  it  on  the 
table,  takes  out  his  snuff-box,  takes  a  pinch,  then  his  hand- 
kerchief blows  his  nose,  snuffs  the  candles^  takes  his 
spectacles  from  his  ivaistcoat  pocket,  puts  them  on,  breaks 
the  seals,  and  bows  to  the  company  ;  Mrs  Jellybags  has 
taken  her  seat  on  the  left  next  to  him,  and  Doctor  Gumarabic 
by  her  side.  Mrs  Jellybags  sobs  very  loud,  with  her 
handkerchief  to  her  face. 

Seedy.  Silence,  if  you  please. 

\^Mrs  Jellybags  stops  sobbing  imtnediately. 
Edw.    (putting   his   arm   round  Clementinci  s  waist.)     My 
dearest  Clementina ! 


lil-Will 


^73 


Mr  Seedy  hems  twice,  and  then  reads, 

"The  Last  Will  and  Testament  of  Christopher  Cada- 
verous, Gentleman,  of  Copse  Horton,  in  the  county  of 
Cumberlando 

**  I,  Christopher  Cadaverous,  being  at  this  time  in  sound 
mind,  do  hereby  make  my  last  will  and  testament. 

"  First,  I  pray  that  I  may  be  forgiven  all  my  manifold 
sins  and  wickedness,  and  I  do  beg  forgiveness  of  all  those 
whom  I  may  have  injured  unintentionally  or  otherwise ;  and 
at  the  same  time  do  pardon  all  those  who  may  have  done 
me  wrong,  even  to  John  Jones,  the  turnpike  man,  who 
unjustly  made  me  pay  the  threepenny  toll  twice  over  on 
Easter  last,  when  I  went  up  to  receive  my  dividends. 

**  My  property,  personal  and  real,  I  devise  to  my  two 
friends  Solomon  Lazarus,  residing  at  No.  3  Lower  Thames- 
street,  and  Hezekiah  Flint,  residing  at  No.  16  Lothbury, 
to  have  and  to  hold  for  the  following  uses  and  purposes: — 

"  First,  to  my  dearly-beloved  niece,  Clementina  Montagu, 
I  leave  the  sum  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  3  J  per 
cent,  consols,  for  her  sole  use  and  benefit,  to  be  made  over 
to  her,  both  principal  and  interest,  on  the  day  of  her 
marriage. 

[Edivards  ivithdranvs  his  arm  from  Clementinas  ivaist 
— turns  half  round  from  her,  and  falls  back  in  his 
chair  ivith  a  pish  ! 

"  To  my  nephew,  Thomas  Montagu,  I  leave  the  sum  of 
nineteen  pounds  nineteen  shillings  and  sixpence — having 
deducted  the  other  sixpence  to  avoid  the  legacy  duty. 

\Thomas  turns  from  the  lawyer  with  his  face  to  the  front 
of  the  stage,  crossing  his  legs. 

**  To  my  nephew,  John  Montagu,  I  leave  also  the  sum 
of  nineteen  pounds  nineteen  shillings  and  sixpence. 

[John  turns  away  in  the  same  manner, 

**  To  my  nephew,  once  removed,  James  Stirling,  I  leave 
the  sum  of  five  pounds  to  purchase  a  suit  of  mourning. 

[James  turns  away  as  the  others. 

**To  my  nephew,  once    removed,  William   Stirhng,  I 


k 


174  ^l^a  Podrida 

also  leave  the  sum  of  five  pounds   to  purchase  a  suit  of 
mourning. 

\WiUiam  turns  aivay  as  the  others, 
**  To  my  kind  and  affectionate  housekeeper,  Mrs  Martha 

Jellybags " 

[Mrs  Jellybags  sobs  loudly,  and  cries  *^  Oh  dear  !   Oh 
dear!'' 
Mr  Seedy.  Silence,  if  your  please.  [Reads, 

**  In  return  for  all  her  attention  to  me  during  my  illness, 

and  her  ten  years'  service,  I  leave  the  whole  of  my 

[Mr  Seedy  having  come  to  the  bottom  of  the  page  lays 

doivn  the  ivill,  takes  out  his  snuff-ho^^  takes  a  pinch, 

blows  his  nose,  snuffs  the  candles,  and  proceeds. 

— "  I  leave  the  whole  of  my  wardrobe,  for  her  entire  use 

and  disposal ;  and  also  my  silver  watch  with  my  key  and 

seal  hanging  to  it. 

"  And  having  thus  provided  for " 

[Mrs  Jellybags,  <who  has  been  listening  attentively,  inter- 
rupts Mr  Seedy  in  great  agitation. 
Jel.  Will  you  be  pleased  to  read  that  part  over  again  ? 
Seedy.  Certainly,  ma'am.     "  I   leave    the  whole    of  my 
wardrobe,  and  also  my  silver  watch,  with  the  key  and  seal 
hanging  to  it. 

[Mrs  Jellybags  screams,  and  falls  back  in  a  sivoon  on  her 

chair — no  one  assists  her. 

**  And  having  thus  provided  for  all  my  relations,  I  do 

hereby  devise  the  rest  of  my  property  to  the  said  Solomon 

Lazarus  and  Hezekiah  Flint,  to  have  and  to  hold  for  the 

building  and  endowment  of  an  hospital  for  diseases  of  the 

heart,  lights,  liver,  and  spleen,  as  set  off  by  the  provisions 

in  the  schedule  annexed  to  my  will  as  part  and  codicil  to  it." 

Seedy.  "Would  the  relations  like  me  to  read  the  provisions  ? 

Omnes.  No  !  no  !  no  ! 

(^Mr  Seedy  is  about  to  fold  up  the  papers.) 
Gum.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  is  there  no  other  codicil  ? 
Seedy.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr  Gumarabic,  I  recollect  now 
there  is  one  relative  to  you. 

Gum.  {nods  his  head.)  I  thought  so. 


(( 


Ill-WiU  175 

{Seedy  reads.) 
And    whereas    I   consider    that    my    apothecary,    Mr 
Haustus  Gumarabic,  hath  sent  in  much  unnecessary  physic, 
during  my   long    illness — it   is    my  earnest    request    that 
my  executors  will  not  fail  to  tax. his  bill." 

Gum.  (rises  and  comes  forivard.)  Tax  my  bill ! — well 
that  is  odd,  very  odd  !  I  may  as  well  go  and  look  after  my 
patients.  \Exit. 

{James  and  William  come  forivard.) 
James.  I  say.  Bill,  how  are  you  off  for  a  suit  of  mourn- 
ing } 

Will.  Thanky  for  nothing,  Jem.  If  the  old  gentleman 
don't  go  to  heaven  until  I  put  it  on,  he  will  be  in  a  very 
bad  way.     Come  along,  it's  no  use  staying  here. 

{John  and  Thomas  come  forivard.) 

John.  I  say,  Tom,  how  are  you  off  for  nineteen  pounds 
nineteen  and  six  ?     Heh  ! 

Thos.  Let's  toss  and  see  which  shall  have  both  legacies. 
Here  goes — heads  or  tails  ? 

John.  Woman  for  ever. 

Thos.  You've  won,  so  there's  an  end  of  not  only 
my  expectations  but  realities.  Come  along,  Mrs  Jellybags 
must  be  anxious  to  look  over  her  wardrobe. 

John.  Yes,  and  also  the  silver  watch  and  the  key  and 
seal  hanging  to  it.     Good-bye,  Jemmy  !     Ha  !   ha  ! 

\Exewtt,  laughing. 

Clem.  For  shame,  John.  {Turns  to  Edward.)  My  dear 
Edward,  do  not  appear  so  downcast.  I  acknowledge  that 
I  am  myself  much  mortified  and  disappointed — but  we  must 
submit  to  circumstances.  What  did  I  tell  you  before  this 
will  was  read  ? — that  nothing  could  alter  my  feeHngs 
towards  you,  did  I  not  ? 

Ediv.   {with  indifference.)      Yes. 

Clem.  Why  then  annoy  yourself,  my  dear  Edward  ? 

Edw.  The  confounded  old  junks  ! 

Clem.  Nay,  Edward,  recollect  that  he  is  dead — I  can 
forgive  him. 


176  OUa  Podrida 

Edw,  But  I  won*t,.  Has  he  not  dashed  my  cup  of  bliss 
to  the  ground  ?  Heavens  !  what  delightful  anticipations  I 
had  formed  of  possessing  you  and  competence — all  gone ! 

Clem,  All  gone,  dear  Edward  ? 

[Mrs  Jellyhags,  ivho  has  been  sitting  very  still,  takes  her 
handkerchief  from  her  eyes  and  listens, 

Ednv.  Yes,  gone  \ — gone  for  ever !  Do  you  imagine, 
my  ever  dear  Clementina,  that  I  would  be  so  base,  so  cruel, 
so  regardless  of  you  and  your  welfare,  to  entrap  you 
into  marriage  with  only  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds? 
No,  no  ! — judge  me  better.  I  sacrifice  myself — my  happi- 
ness— all  for  you! — banish  myself  from  your  dear  presence, 
and  retire  to  pass  the  remainder  of  my  existence  in  misery 
and  regret,  maddened  with  the  feeling  that  some  happier 
mortal  will  obtain  that  dear  hand,  and  will  rejoice  in  the 
possession  of  those  charms  which  I  had  too  fondly,  too 
credulously,  imagined  as  certain  to  be  mine. 

\Takes  out  his  handkerchief,  and  covers  his  face; 
Cietnentina  also  puts  her  handkerchief  to  her  face 
and  weeps.    Mrs  Jellyhags  nods  her  head  ironically, 

Clem,  Edward  ! 

Ed'w,  My  dear,  dear  Clementina ! 

Clem,  You  won't  have  me  ? 

Ediv,  My  honour  forbids  it.  If  you  knew  my  feelings 
— how  this  poor  heart  is  racked  ! 

Clem,  Don't  leave  me,  Edward.  Did  you  not  say  that 
for  richer  or  for  poorer,  for  better  or  for  worse,  you 
would  be  mine,  till  death  did  us  part  ? 

Ednv,  Did  I? 

Clem,  You  know  you  did,  Edward. 

Ednv,  It's  astonishing  how  much  nonsense  we  talk  when 
in  love.  My  dearest  Clementina,  let  us  be  rational.  We 
are  almost  without  a  sixpence.  There  is  an  old  adage, 
that  when  poverty  comes  in  at  the  door,  love  flies  out  of 
the  window.  Shall  I  then  make  you  miserable  !  No,  no ! 
Hear  me,  Clementina.  I  will  be  generous.  I  now  absolve 
you  from  all  your  vows.  You  are  free.  Should  the  time 
ever  come  that  prosperity  shine  upon  me,  and  I  find  that 


Ill- Will  177 

I  have  sufficient  for  both  of  us  of  that  dross  which  I 
despise,  then  will  I  return,  and,  should  my  Clementina 
not  have  entered  into  any  other  engagement,  throw  my 
fortune  and  my  person  at  her  feet.  Till  then,  dearest 
Clementina,  farewell ! 

Cletn.  (sinking  into  a  chair  sobbing.)  Cruel  Edward  !  Oh, 
my  heart  will  break  ! 

Edw.  I  can  bear  it  myself  no  longer.  Farewell !  fare- 
well !  [^Exit, 

Jel.  (coming  for nvard.)  "Well,  this  is  some  comfort.  (To 
Clementina.)  Did  not  I  tell  you.  Miss,  that  if  you  did 
not  change  your  mind,  others  might  ? 

Clem.  Leave  me,  leave  me. 

Jel.  No,  I  shan't  ;  I  have  as  good  a  right  here  as  you, 
at  all  events.     I  shall  stay.  Miss. 

Clem,  (rising.)  Stay  then — but  I  shall  not.  Oh, 
Edward  !   Edward  !  \_Exit,  nveeping. 

Jel.  (alone.)  Well,  I  really  thought  I  should  have 
burst — to  be  forced  not  to  allow  people  to  suppose  that 
I  cared,  when  I  should  like  to  tear  the  old  wretch  out 
of  his  coffin  to  beat  him.  His  wardrobe  !  If  people 
knew  his  wardrobe  as  well  as  I  do,  who  have  been 
patching  at  it  these  last  ten  years — not  a  shirt  or  a  stock- 
ing that  would  fetch  sixpence  !  And  as  for  his  other 
garments,  why  a  Jew  would  hardly  put  them  into  his 
bag  !  (Crying.)  Oh  dear  !  oh  dear  !  After  all,  I'm  just 
like  Miss  Clementina ;  for  Sergeant  O'Callaghan,  when 
he  knows  all  this,  will  as  surely  walk  off  without  beat 
of  drum,  as  did  Mr  Edward — and  that  too  with  all  the 
money  I  have  lent  him.  Oh  these  men  !  these  men  ! — 
whether  they  are  living  or  dying  there  is  nothing  in  them 
but  treachery  and  disappointment  !  When  they  pretend 
to  be  in  love,  they  only  are  trying  for  your  money ;  and 
e'en  when  they  make  their  wills,  they  leave  to  those 
behind  them  nothing  but  ill-will ! 

[Exitf  crying,  off  the  stage  as  the  curtain  falls. 


M 


How  to  write    a  Fashionable  Novel 


\Scene. —  Chambers  in  Lincoln* s  Inn,  Arthur  Ansard  at  a 
briefless  table,  tete-a-tete  with  his  wig  on  a  block.  A. 
casts  a  disconsolate  look  upon  his  companion,  and  solilo- 
quises.'] 

Yes,  there  you  stand,  "  partner  of  my  toils,  my  feelings, 
and  my  fame."  We  do  not  suit,  for  we  never  gained  a 
suit  together.  Well,  what  with  reporting  for  the  bar, 
writing  for  the  Annuals  and  the  Pocket-books,  I  shall  be 
able  to  meet  all  demands,  except  those  of  my  tailor ;  and, 
as  his  bill  is  most  characteristically  long,  I  think  I  shall  be 
able  to  make  it  stretch  over  till  next  term,  by  which  time 
I  hope  to  fulfil  my  engagements  with  Mr  C,  who  has 
given  me  an  order  for  a  fashionable  novel,  written  by  a 
"  nobleman."  But  how  I,  who  was  never  inside  of  an 
aristocratical  mansion  in  my  life,  whose  whole  idea  of 
Court  is  comprised  in  the  Court  of  King's  Bench,  am  to 
complete  my  engagement,  I  know  no  more  than  my  com- 
panion opposite,  who  looks  so  placidly  stupid  under  my 
venerable  wig.  As  far  as  the  street  door,  the  footman 
and  carriage,  and  the  porter,  are  concerned,  I  can  manage 
well  enough  ;  but  as  to  what  occurs  within  doors,  I  am 
quite  abroad.  I  shall  never  get  through  the  first  chapter ; 
yet  that  tailor's  bill  must  be  paid.  {Knocking  outside.) 
Come  in,  I  pray. 

Enter  Barnstaple. 

B.  Merry  Christmas  to  you,  Arthur. 
A.  Sit  down,  my  dear  fellow  j  but  don't  mock  me  with 
merry  Christmas.     He  emigrated  long  ago.     Answer  me 


i8o  Olla  Podrida 

seriously :  do  you  think  it  possible  for  a  man  to  describe 
what  he  never  saw  ? 

B,  (putting  his  stick  up  to  his  chin»)  Why,  *tis  possible  ^ 
but  I  would  not  answer  for  the  description  being  quite 
correct. 

A.  But  suppose  the  parties  who  read  it  have  never  seen 
the  thing  described  ? 

B.  Why  then  it  won't  signify  whether  the  description 
be  correct  or  not. 

A,  You  have  taken  a  load  off  my  mind ;  but  still  I  am 
not  quite  at  ease.  I  have  engaged  to  furnish  C.  with  a 
fashionable  novel. 

B.  What  do  you  mean  to  imply  by  a  fashionable  novel  ? 

A,  I  really  can  hardly  tell.  His  stipulations  were,  that 
it  was  to  be  a  "  fashionable  novel  in  three  volumes,  each 
volume  not  less  than  three  hundred  pages." 

B.  That  is  to  say,  that  you  are  to  assist  him  in  imposing 
on  the  public. 

A,  Something  very  like  it,  I'm  afraid ;  as  it  is  further 
agreed  that  it  is  to  be  puffed  as  coming  from  a  highly 
talented  nobleman. 

B.  You  should  not  do  it,  Ansard. 

A,  So  conscience  tells  me,  but  my  tailor's  bill  says 
Yes  ;  and  that  is  a  thing  out  of  all  conscience.  Only  look 
here. 

[Displays  a  long  hilL 

B.  Why,  I  must  acknowledge,  Ansard,  that  there  is 
some  excuse.  One  needs  must,  when  the  devil  drives ; 
but  you  are  capable  of  better  things. 

A.  I  certainly  don't  feel  great  capability  in  this  instance. 
But  what  can  I  do  ?  The  man  will  have  nothing  else — he 
says  the  public  will  read  nothing  else. 

B,  That  is  to  say,  that  because  one  talented  author 
astonished  the  public  by  style  and  merits  peculiarly  his 
own,  and  established,  as  it  were,  a  school  for  neophites,  his 
popularity  is  to  be  injured  by  contemptible  imitators.  It 
is  sufficient  to  drive  a  man  mad,  to  find  that  the  tinsel  of 
others,  if  to  be  purchased  more  cheaply,  is  to  be  pawned 


How  to  write  a  Fashionable  Novel        i8i 

upon  the  public  instead  of  his  gold ;  and  more  annoying 
still,  that  the  majority  of  the  public  cannot  appreciate  the 
difference  between  the  metal  and  the  alloy.  Do  you  know, 
Ansard,  that  by  getting  up  this  work,  you  really  injure  the 
popularity  of  a  man  of  great  talent  ? 

A.  Will  he  pay  my  tailor's  bill  ? 

B.  No  5  I  daresay  he  has  enough  to  do  to  pay  his  own. 
What  does  your  tailor  say  ? 

A.  He  is  a  staunch  reformer,  and  on  March  the  1st  he 
declares  that  he  will  have  the  bill,  the  whole  bill,  and 
nothing  but  the  bill — carried  to  my  credit.  Mr  C,  on  the 
loth  of  February,  also  expects  the  novel,  the  whole  novel, 
and  nothing  but  the  novel,  and  that  must  be  a  fashionable 
novel.     Look  here,  Barnstaple.     {Shoivs  his  tailor's  bill.) 

B.  I  see  how  it  is.  He  **  pays  your  poverty,  and  not 
your  will." 

A.  And,  by  your  leave,  I  thus  must  pay  my  bill  {bowing). 

B.  Well,  well,  I  can  help  you  :  nothing  more  difficult 
than  to  write  a  good  novel,  and  nothing  more  easy  than  to 
write  a  bad  one.  If  I  were  not  above  the  temptation,  I 
could  pen  you  a  dozen  of  the  latter  every  ordinary  year, 
and  thirteen,  perhaps,  in  the  bissextile.  So  banish  that 
Christmas  cloud  from  your  brow  j  leave  off  nibbling  your 
pen  at  the  wrong  end,  and  clap  a  fresh  nib  to  the  right 
one.     I  have  an  hour  to  spare. 

A.  I  thank  you  :  that  spare  hour  of  yours  may  save  me 
many  a  spare  day.     Fm  all  attention — proceed. 

B,  The  first  point  to  be  considered  is  the  tempuSy  or 
time  \  the  next  the  locus,  or  place  ;  and  lastly,  the  dramatis 
persona  ;  and  thus,  chapter  upon  chapter,  will  you  build  a 
novel. 

A.  Build  ! 

B.  Yes,  build  ;  you  have  had  your  dimensions  given,  the 
interior  is  left  to  your  own  decoration.  First,  as  to  the 
opening.  Suppose  we  introduce  the  hero  in  his  dressing- 
room.  We  have  something  of  the  kind  in  Pelham  ;  and  if 
we  can't  copy  his  merits,  we  must  his  peculiarities. 
Besides,  it  always  is  effective  :  a  dressing-room  or  boudoir 


1 82  011a  Podrida 

of  supposed  great  people,  is  admitting  the  vulgar  into  the 
arcana,  which  they  delight  in. 

A.  Nothing  can  be  better. 

B,  Then,  as  to  time  ;  as  the  hero  is  still  in  bed,  suppose 
we  say  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  ? 

A,  In  the  morning,  you  mean. 

B.  No ;  the  afternoon.  I  grant  you  that  fashionable 
young  men  in  real  life  get  up  much  about  the  same  time  as 
other  people  ;  but  in  a  fashionable  novel  your  real 
exclusive  never  rises  early.  The  very  idea  makes  the 
tradesman's  wife  lift  up  her  eyes.  So  begin.  "  It  was 
about  thirty-three  minutes  after  four,  post  meridian " 

A.  Minute — to  a  minute  ! 

B.  "  That  the  Honourable  Augustus  Bouverie's  finely 
chiselled " 

A,  Chiselled ! 

B.  Yes ;  great  people  are  always  chiselled ;  common 
people  are  only  cast. — "  Finely  chiselled  head  was  still 
recumbent  upon  his  silk-encased  pillow.  His  luxuriant 
and  Antinous-like  curls  were  now  confined  mpapillotes  of 
the  finest  satin  paper,  and  the  tout  ensemble  of  his  head " 

A.  Tout  ensemble  ! 

B.  Yes  ;  go  on. — "  Was  gently  compressed  by  a  caul 
of  the  finest  net -work,  composed  of  the  threads  spun 
from  the  beauteous  production  of  the  Italian  worm." 

A.  Ah  !  now  I  perceive — a  silk  nightcap.  But  why 
can't  I  say  at  once  a  silk  nightcap  ? 

B.  Because  you  are  writing  a  fashionable  novel. — 
"With  the  forefinger  of  his  gloved  left  hand " 

A.  But  he's  not  coming  in  from  a  walk — he's  not  yet 
out  of  bed. 

B,  You  don't  understand  it. — "  Gloved  left  hand  he 
applied  a  gentle  friction  to  the  portal  of  his  right  eye, 
which  unclosing  at  the  silent  summons,  enabled  him  to 
perceive  a  repeater  studded  with  brilliants,  and  ascertain 
the  exact  minute  of  time,  which  we  have  already  made 
known  to  the  reader,  and  at  which  our  history  opens." 

A.  A  very  grand  opening  indeed  ! 


How  to  write  a  Fashionable  Novel        183 

B.  Not  more  than  it  ought  to  be  for  a  fashionable  novel. 
— "  At  the  sound  of  a  silver  clochette,  his  faithful  Swiss 
valet  Coridon,  who  had  for  some  time  been  unperceived  at 
the  door,  waiting  for  some  notice  of  his  master,  having 
thrown  off  the  empire  of  Somnus,  in  his  light  pumps, 
covered  with  beaver,  moved  with  noiseless  step  up  to  the 
bedside,  like  the  advance  of  eve  stealing  over  the  face  of 
nature." 

A.  Rather  an  incongruous  simile. 

B,  Not  for  a  fashionable  novel. — "  There  he  stood,  like 
Taciturnity  bowing  at  the  feet  of  proud  Authority." 

A.  Indeed,  Barnstaple,  that  is  too  outre. 

B.  Not  a  whit :  I  am  in  the  true  "  Cambysis'  vein." — 
"  Coridon  having  softly  withdrawn  the  rose-coloured  gros 
de  Naples  bed-curtains,  which  by  some  might  have  been 
thought  to  have  been  rather  too  extravagantly  fringed 
with  the  finest  Mechlin  lace,  exclaimed  with  a  tone  of 
tremulous  deference  and  affection,  *  Monsieur  a  Men  dorfniV 
*  Coridon,'  said  the  Honourable  Augustus  Bouverie,  raising 
himself  on  his  elbow  in  that  eminently  graceful  attitude, 
for  which  he  was  so  remarkable  when  reclining  on  the 
ottomans  at  Al mack's " 

A.  Are  you  sure  they  have  ottamans  there  ? 

B.  No  ;  but  your  readers  can't  disprove  it. — "  *  Coridon,' 
said  he,  surveying  his  attendant  from  head  to  foot,  and 
ultimately  assuming  a  severity  of  countenance,  *  Coridon, 
you  are  becoming  gross,  if  not  positively  what  the  people 
call  fat.''  The  Swiss  attendant  fell  back  in  graceful  aston- 
ishment three  steps,  and  arching  his  eyebrows,  extending 
his  inverted  palms  forward,  and  raising  his  shoulders  above 
the  apex  of  his  head,  exclaimed,  *  Pardon,  mi  lor,  fen  aurois 
un  horreur  parfait^  *  I  tell  you,'  replied  our  gracefully 
recumbent  hero,  *  that  it  is  so,  Coridon ;  and  I  ascribe  it  to 
your  partiality  for  that  detestable  wine  called  Port.  Con- 
fine yourself  to  Hock  and  Moselle,  sirrah :  I  fear  me,  you 
have  a  base  hankering  after  mutton  and  beef.  Restrict 
yourself  to  salads,  and  do  not  sin  even  with  an  omelette 
more  than  once  a  week.     Coridon  must  be  visionary  and 


1 84  011a  Podrida 

diaphanous,  or  he  is  no  Coridon  for  me.  Remove  my 
night-gloves,  and  assist  me  to  rise :  it  is  past  four  o'clock, 
and  the  sun  must  have,  by  this  time,  sufficiently  aired  this 
terrestrial  globe.' " 

A.  I  have  it  now  ;  I  feel  I  could  go  on  for  an  hour. 

B,  Longer  than  that,  before  you  get  him  out  of  his 
dressing-room.  You  must  make  at  least  five  chapters 
before  he  is  apparelled,  or  how  can  you  write  a  fashionable 
novel,  in  which  you  cannot  afford  more  than  two  incidents 
in  the  three  volumes  ?     Two  are  absolutely  necessary  for 

the  editor  of  the Gazette  to  extract  as  specimens, 

before  he  winds  up  an  eulogy.  Do  you  think  that  you  can 
proceed  now  for  a  week,  without  my  assistance  ? 

A.  I  think  so,  if  you  will  first  give  me  some  general 
ideas.  In  the  first  place,  am  I  always  to  continue  in  this 
style  ? 

B.  No  j  I  thought  you  knew  better.  You  must  throw 
in  patches  of  philosophy  every  now  and  then. 

A,  Philosophy  in  a  fashionable  novel  ? 

B,  Most  assuredly,  or  it  would  be  complained  of  as 
trifling ;  but  a  piece,  now  and  then,  of  philosophy,  as 
unintelligible  as  possible,  stamps  it  with  deep  thought. 
In  the  dressing-room,  or  boudoir,  it  must  be  occasionally 
Epicurean;  elsewhere,  especially  in  the  open  air,  more 
Stoical. 

A.  I'm  afraid  that  I  shall  not  manage  that  without  a 
specimen  to  copy  from.  Now  I  think  of  it,  Eugene  Aram 
says  something  very  beautiful  on  a  starry  night. 

B.  He  does :  it  is  one  of  the  most  splendid  pieces  of 
writing  in  our  language.  But  I  will  have  no  profanation, 
Arthur  \ — to  your  pen  again,  and  write.  We'll  suppose 
our  hero  to  have  retired  from  the  crowded  festivities  of 
a  ball-room  at  some  lordly  mansion  in  the  country,  and  to 
have  wandered  into  a  churchyard,  damp  and  dreary  with 
a  thick  London  fog.  In  the  light  dress  of  fashion,  he 
throws  himself  on  a  tombstone.  "  Ye  dead !  "  exclaims 
the  hero,  "  where  are  ye  ?  Do  your  disembodied  spirits 
now  float  around  me,  and,  shrouded  in  this  horrible  veil 


How  to  write  a  Fashionable  Novel        185 

of  nature,  glare  unseen  upon  vitality  ?  Float  ye  upon 
this  intolerable  mist,  in  yourselves  still  more  misty  and 
intolerable  ?  Hold  ye  high  jubilee  to-night  ?  or  do  ye 
crouch  behind  these  monitorial  stones,  gibbering  and 
chattering  at  one  who  dares  thus  to  invade  your  precincts  ? 
Here  may  I  hold  communion  with  my  soul,  and,  in  the 
invisible  presence  of  those  who  could,  but  dare  not  to 
reveal.     Away  !  it  must  not  be." 

A,  What  mustn't  be  ? 

B.  That  is  the  mystery  which  gives  the  point  to  his 
soliloquy.     Leave  it  to  the  reader's  imagination. 

A.  I  understand.  But  still  the  Honourable  Augustus 
cannot  lie  in  bed  much  longer,  and  I  really  shall  not  be 
able  to  get  him  out  without  your  assistance.  I  do  not 
comprehend  how  a  man  can  get  out  of  bed  gracefully ;  he 
must  show  his  bare  legs,  and  the  alteration  of  position  is 
in  itself  awkward. 

B.  Not  half  so  awkward  as  you  are.  Do  you  not  feel 
that  he  must  not  be  got  out  of  bed  at  all — that  is,  by 
description. 

A.  How  then  ? 

B.  By  saying  nothing  about  it.  Re-commence  as 
follows  : — "  *  I  should  like  the  bath  at  seventy-six  and 
a  half,  Coridon,'  observed  the  Honourable  Augustus 
Bouverie,  as  he  wrapped  his  embroidered  dressing-gown 
round  his  elegant  form,  and  sank  into  a  chaise  longue, 
wheeled  by  his  faithful  attendant  to  the  fire."  There, 
you  observe,  he  is  out  of  bed,  and  nothing  said  about  it. 

A.  Go  on,  I  pray  thee. 

B.  "  *  How  is  the  bath  perfumed  ? '  *  Eau  de  milk 
jleurs^       *  Eau   de   mille  jleurs  I      Did  not  I   tell  you  last 

week  that  I  was  tired  of  that  villanous  compound }  It 
has  been  adulterated  till  nothing  remains  but  its  name. 
Get  me  another  bath  immediately  an  violet ;  and,  Coridon, 
you  may  use  that  other  scent,  if  there  is  any  left,  for  the 
poodle ;  but  observe,  only  when  you  take  him  an  airing, 
not  when  he  goes  with  me^  " 

A,  Excellent !     I  now  feel  the    real  merits  of  an  ex- 


1 86  011a  Podrida 

elusive  ;  but  you  said  something  about  dressing-room,  or 
in-door  philosophy. 

B.  I  did  ;  and  now  is  a  good  opportunity  to  introduce  it. 
Coridon  goes  into  the  ante-chamber  to  renew  the  bath, 
and  of  course  your  hero  has  met  with  a  disappointment  in 
not  having  the  bath  to  his  immediate  pleasure.  He  must 
press  his  hands  to  his  forehead.  By-the-bye,  recollect  that 
his  forehead,  when  you  describe  it,  must  be  high  and 
white  as  snow:  all  aristocratical  foreheads  are — at  least, 
are  in  a  fashionable  novel. 

A.  What !  the  women's  and  all  ? 

B.  The  heroine's  must  be;  the  others  you  may  lower 
as  a  contrast.  But  to  resume  with  the  philosophy.  He 
strikes  his  forehead,  lifts  his  eyes  slowly  up  to  the  ceiling, 
and  drops  his  right  arm  as  slowly  down  by  the  side  of 
the  chaise  longue  ;  and  then  in  a  voice  so  low  that  it  might 
have  been  considered  a  whisper,  were  it  not  for  its  clear 
and  brilliant  intonation,  he  exclaims 

A.  Exclaims  in  a  whisper  ! 

B.  To  be  sure  ;  you  exclaim  mentally, — why  should 
you  not  in  a  whisper  ? 

A.  I  perceive — your  argument  is  unanswerable. 

B.  Stop  a  moment  ;  it  will  run  better  thus : — *'  The 
Honourable  Augustus  Bouverie  no  sooner  perceived  himself 
alone,  than  he  felt  the  dark  shades  of  melancholy  ascending 
and  brooding  over  his  mind,  and  enveloping  his  throbbing 
heart  in  their — their  adamantine  chains.  Yielding  to  the 
overwhelming  force,  he  thus  exclaimed,  *  Such  is  life — we 
require  but  one  flower,  and  we  are  offered  noisome 
thousands — refused  that  we  wish,  we  live  in  loathing  of 
that  not  worthy  to  be  received — mourners  from  our  cradle 
to  our  grave,  we  utter  the  shrill  cry  at  our  birth,  and  we 
sink  in  oblivion  with  the  faint  wail  of  terror.  Why  should 
we,  then,  ever  commit  the  folly  to  be  happy  ? ' " 

A.  Hang  me,  but  that's  a  poser  ! 

B.  Nonsense !  hold  your  tongue  5  it  is  only  preparatory 
to  the  end.  "  Conviction  astonishes  and  torments — destiny 
prescribes  and  falsifies — attraction  drives  us  away — humili- 


How  to  write  a  Fashionable  Novel        187 

ation  supports  our  energies.     Thus  do  we  recede  into  the 
present,  and  shudder  at  the  Elysium  of  posterity." 

A.  I  have  written  all  that  down,  Barnstaple;  but  I 
cannot  understand  it,  upon  my  soul ! 

B.  If  you  had  understood  one  particle,  that  particle  I 
would  have  erased.  This  is  your  true  philosophy  of  a 
fashionable  novel,  the  extreme  interest  of  which  consists  in 
its  being  unintelligible.  People  have  such  an  opinion  of 
their  own  abilities,  that  if  they  understood  you,  they  would 
despise  you  ;  but  a  dose  like  this  strikes  them  with  vener- 
ation for  your  talents. 

A.  Your  argument  is  unanswerable  ;  but  you  said  that 
I  must  describe  the  dressing-room. 

B.  Nothing  more  easy ;  as  a  simile,  compare  it  to  the 
shrine  of  some  favoured  saint  in  a  richly-endowed  Catholic 
church.  Three  tables  at  least,  full  of  materials  in  method- 
ised confusion — all  tending  to  the  beautification  of  the 
human  form  divine.  Tinted  perfumes  in  every  variety  of 
cut  crystal  receivers,  gold  and  silver.  If  at  a  loss,  call  at 
Bayley's  and  Blew's,  or  Smith's  in  Bond  Street.  Take  an 
accurate  survey  of  all  you  see,  and  introduce  your  whole 
catalogue.  You  cannot  be  too  minute.  But,  Arthur,  you 
must  not  expect  me  to  write  the  whole  book  for  you. 

A.  Indeed  I  am  not  so  exorbitant  in  my  demands 
upon  your  good-nature ;  but  observe,  I  may  get  up  four  or 
five  chapters  already  with  the  hints  you  have  given  me, 
but  I  do  not  know  how  to  move  such  a  creation  of  the 
brain — so  ethereal,  that  I  fear  he  will  melt  away ;  and  so 
fragile,  that  I  am  in  terror  lest  he  fall  to  pieces.  Now  only 
get  him  into  the  breakfast-room  for  me,  and  then  I  ask  no 
more  for  the  present.  Only  dress  him,  and  bring  him 
down  stairs, 

B.  There  again  you  prove  your  incapability.  Bring  him 
down  stairs  !  Your  hero  of  a  fashionable  novel  never 
ascends  to  the  first  floor.  Bed-room,  dressing-room, 
breakfast-room,  library,  and  boudoir,  all  are  upon  a  level. 
As  for  his  dressing,  you  must  only  describe  it  as  perfect 
when  finished ;  but  not  enter  into  a  regular  detail,  except 


1 88  Olla  Podrida 

that,  in  conversation  with  his  valet,  he  occasionally  asks  for 
something  unheard-of,  or  fastidious  to  a  degree.  You 
must  not  walk  him  from  one  chamber  to  another,  but 
manage  it  as  follows : — "  It  was  not  until  the  beautiful  airs 
of  the  French  clock  that  decorated  the  mantel-piece  had 
been  thrice  played,  with  all  their  variations,  that  the 
Honourable  Augustus  Bouverie  entered  his  library,  where 
he  found  his  assiduous  Coridon  burning  an  aromatic  pastile 
to  disperse  the  compound  of  villanous  exhalations  arising 
from  the  condensed  metropolitan  atmosphere.  Once  more 
in  a  state  of  repose,  to  the  repeated  and  almost  affecting 
solicitations  of  his  faithful  attendant,  who  alternately  pre- 
sented to  him  the  hyson  of  Pekoe,  the  bohea  of  Twankay, 
the  fragrant  berry  from  the  Asiatic  shore,  and  the  frothing 
and  perfumed  decoction  of  the  Indian  nut,  our  hero  shook 
his  head  in  denial,  until  he  at  last  was  prevailed  upon  to 
sip  a  small  liqueur  glass  of  eau  sucrhy  The  fact  is, 
Arthur,  he  is  in  love — don't  you  perceive  ?  Now  introduce 
a  friend,  who  rallies  him — then  a  resolution  to  think  no 
more  of  the  heroine — a  billet  on  a  golden  salver — a  counter 
resolution — a  debate  which  equipage  to  order — a  decision 
at  last — hat,  gloves,  and  furred  great-coat — and  by  that 
time  you  will  have  arrived  to  the  middle  of  the  first 
volume. 

A.  I  perceive ;  but  I  shall  certainly  stick  there  without 
your  assistance. 

B.  You  shall  have  it,  my  dear  fellow.  In  a  week  I  will 
call  again,  and  see  how  you  get  on.  Then  we'll  introduce 
the  heroine ;  that,  I  can  tell  you,  requires  some  tact — au 
revoir. 

A.  Thanks,  many  thanks,  my  dear  Barnstaple.  Fare  you 
well.  \Exit  Barnstaple, 

A,  (Looking  over  his  memoranda.) — It  will  do  ! 
(Hopping  and  dancing  about  the  room?)     Hurrah  !  my  tailor's 
bill  will  be  paid  after  all ! 


How  to  write  a  Fashionable  Novel       189 


PART  II 

[Mr  Arthur  Ansard^s  Chambers  as  before.  Mr  An  sard,  with 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  wig  block,  gnawing  the  feather  end 
of  his  pen.  The  table,  covered  with  sundry  sheets  of 
foolscap,  shows  strong  symptoms  of  the  Novel progressifig.'\ 

Ansard  {solus). 

Where  is  Barnstaple  ?  If  he  do  not  come  soon,  I  shall 
have  finished  my  novel  without  a  heroine.  Well,  I'm  not 
the  first  person  who  has  been  foiled  by  a  woman.  {Con- 
tinues to  gnaiv  his  pen  in  a  brown  study.) 

Barnstaple  enters  unperceived,  and  slaps  Ansard  on  the  shoulder. 
The  latter  starts  up. 

B.  So,  friend  Ansard,  making  your  dinner  off  your 
pen :  it  is  not  every  novel  writer  who  can  contrive  to  do 
that  even  in  anticipation.  Have  you  profited  by  my  in- 
structions ? 

A.  I  wish  I  had.  I  assure  you  that  this  light  diet  has 
not  contributed,  as  might  be  expected,  to  assist  a  heavy 
head  ;  and  one  feather  is  not  sufficient  to  enable  my  genius 
to  take  wing.  If  the  public  knew  what  dull  work  it  is 
to  write  a  novel,  they  would  not  be  surprised  at  finding 
them  dull  reading.  Ex  nihilo  nihil  fit.  Barnstaple,  I  am 
at  the  very  bathos  of  stupidity. 

B.  You  certainly  were  absorbed  when  I  entered,  for 
I  introduced  myself. 

A.  I  wish  you  had  introduced  another  personage  with 
you — you  would  have  been  doubly  welcome. 

B.  Who  is  that  ? 

A.  My  heroine.  I  have  followed  your  instructions  to 
the  letter.  My  hero  is  as  listless  as  I  fear  my  readers 
will  be,  and  he  is  not  yet  in  love.  In  fact,  he  is  only 
captivated  with  himself.  I  have  made  him  dismiss 
Coridon. 

B.  Hah  !  how  did  you  manage  that  } 


190  Olla  Podrida 

A.  He  was  sent  to  ascertain  the  arms  on  the  panel  of 
a  carriage.  In  his  eagerness  to  execute  his  master's 
wishes,  he  came  home  with  a  considerable  degree  of 
perspiration  on  his  brow,  for  which  offence  he  was  im- 
mediately put  out  of  doors. 

B.  Bravo — it  was  unpardonable — but  still 

A.  0\  \  know  what  you  mean — that  is  all  arranged  ; 
he  has  an  annuity  of  one  hundred  pounds  per  annum. 

B.  My  dear  Ansard,  you  have  exceeded  my  expecta- 
tions ;  but  now  for  the  heroine. 

A.  Yes,  indeed;  help  me — for  I  have  exhausted  all 
my  powers. 

B,  It  certainly  requires  much  tact  to  present  your 
heroine  to  your  readers.  We  are  unfortunately  denied 
what  the  ancients  were  so  happy  to  possess — a  whole 
cortege  of  divinities  that  might  be  summoned  to  help  any 
great  personage  in,  or  the  author  out  of,  a  difficulty  ;  but 
since  we  cannot  command  their  assistance,  like  the  man 
in  the  play  who  forgot  his  part,  we  will  do  without 
it.  Now,  have  you  thought  of  nothing  new,  for  we 
must  not  plagiarise  even  from  fashionable  novels  ? 

A,  I  have  thought — and  thought — and  can  find  nothing 
new,  unless  we  bring  her  in  in  a  whirlwind :  that  has 
not  yet  been  attempted. 

B,  A  whirlwind !  I  don't  know  —  that's  hazardous. 
Nevertheless,  if  she  were  placed  on  a  beetling  cliff,  over- 
hanging the  tempestuous  ocean,  lashing  the  rocks  with 
its  wild  surge  ;  of  a  sudden,  after  she  has  been  permitted 
to  finish  her  soliloquy,  a  white  cloud  rising  rapidly  and 
unnoticed — the  sudden  vacuum — the  rush  of  mighty  winds 
through  the  majestic  and  alpine  scenery  —  the  vortex 
gathering  round  her — first  admiring  the  vast  efforts  of 
nature ;  then  astonished ;  and,  lastly,  alarmed,  as  she 
finds  herself  compelled  to  perform  involuntary  gyrations, 
till  at  length  she  spins  round  like  a  well-whipped  top, 
Hearing  the  dangerous  edge  of  the  precipice.  It  is  bold, 
and  certainly  quite  novel — I  think  it  will  do.  Portray 
her  delicate  little  feet,  peeping  out,  pointing  downwards. 


How  to  write  a  Fashionable  Novel        191 

the  force  of  the  elements  raising  her  on  her  tip  toes, 
now  touching,  now  disdaining  the  earth.  Her  dress 
expanded  wide  like  that  of  Herbele  in  her  last  and  best 
pirouette — round,  round  she  goes — her  white  arms  are 
tossed  frantically  in  the  air.  Corinne  never  threw  herself 
into  more  graceful  attitudes.  Now  is  seen  her  diminishing 
ankle — now  the  rounded  symmetry — mustn't  go  too  high 
up  though — the  wind  increases — her  distance  from  the 
edge  of  the  precipice  decreases — she  has  no  breath  left 
to  shriek — no  power  to  fall — threatened  to  be  ravished 
by  the  wild  and  powerful  god  of  the  elements — she  is 
discovered  by  the  Honourable  Augustus  Bouverie,  who 
has  just  finished  his  soliloquy  upon  another  adjacent  hill. 
He  delights  in  her  danger  —  before  he  rushes  to  her 
rescue,  makes  one  pause  for  the  purpose  of  admiration, 
and  another  for  the  purpose  of  adjusting  his  shirt 
collar. 

A,  The  devil  he  does  ! 

B.  To  be  sure.  The  hero  of  a  fashionable  novel  never 
loses  caste.  Whether  in  a  storm,  a  whirlwind,  up  to  his 
neck  in  the  foaming  ocean,  or  tumbling  down  a  precipice, 
he  is  still  the  elegant  and  correct  Honourable  Augustus 
Bouverie.  To  punish  you  for  your  interruption,  I  have 
a  great  mind  to  make  him  take  a  pinch  of  snufF  before 
he  starts.  Well — he  flies  to  her  assistance — is  himself 
caught  in  the  rushing  vortex,  which  prevents  him  from 
getting  nearer  to  the  lady,  and,  despite  of  himself,  takes 
to  whirling  in  the  opposite  direction.  They  approach — 
they  recede — she  shrieks  without  being  heard  —  holds 
out  her  arms  for  help — she  would  drop  them  in  despair, 
but  cannot,  for  they  are  twisted  over  her  head  by  the 
tremendous  force  of  the  element.  One  moment  they  are 
near  to  each  other,  and  the  next  they  are  separated  j 
at  one  instant  they  are  close  to  the  abyss,  and  the  waters 
below  roar  in  delight  of  their  anticipated  victims,  and  in 
the  next  a  favouring  change  of  the  vortex  increases  their 
distance  from  the  danger — there  they  spin — and  there 
you  may  leave  them,  and  commence  a  new  chapter. 


192  011a  Podrida 

A,  But  is  not  all  this  naturally  and  physically  impossible  ? 

B,  By  no  means  ;  there  is  nothing  supernatural  in  a 
whirlwind,  and  the  effect  of  a  whirlwind  is  to  twist  every- 
thing round.  Why  should  the  heroine  and  the  Honourable 
Augustus  Bouverie  not  be  submitted  to  the  laws  of 
nature  ?  besides,  we  are  writing  a  fashionable  novel. 
"Wild  and  improbable  as  this  whirlwind  may  appear,  it  is 
within  the  range  of  probability ;  whereas,  that  is  not 
at  all  adhered  to  in  many  novels — witness  the  drinking- 

scene  in ,  and   others   equally  outrees,  in  which 

the  author,  having  turned  probability  out  of  doors,  ends  by 
throwing  possibility  out  of  the  window— leaving  folly  and 
madness  to  usurp  their  place — and  play  a  thousand  antics 
for  the  admiration  of  the  public,  who,  pleased  with  novelty, 
cry  out  "  How  fine  !  " 

A,  Buy  the  book,  and  laud  the  author. 

B.  Exactly.  Now,  having  left  your  hero  and  heroine  in  a 
situation  peculiarly  interesting,  with  the  greatest  nonchal- 
ance, pass  over  to  the  continent,  rave  on  the  summit  of  Mont 
Blanc,  and  descant  upon  the  strata  which  compose  the 
mountains  of  the  Moon  in  central  Africa.  You  have  been 
philosophical,  now  you  must  be  geological.  No  one  can 
then  say  that  your  book  is  light  reading. 

A.  That  can  be  said  of  few  novels.  In  most  of  them  even 
smoke  assumes  the  ponderosity  of  lead. 

B.  There  is  a  metal  still  heavier,  which  they  have  the 
power  of  creating — gold — to  pay  a  dunning  tailor's  bill. 

A.  But  after  having  been  philosophical  and  geological, 
ought  one  not  to  be  a  little  moral  ? 

B.  Pshaw  !  I  thought  you  had  more  sense.  The  great 
art  of  novel  writing  is  to  make  the  vices  glorious,  by  placing 
them  in  close  alliance  with  redeeming  qualities.  Depend 
upon  it,  Ansard,  there  is  a  deeper,  more  heartfelt  satisfaction 
than  mere  amusement  in  novel  reading ;  a  satisfaction  no 
less  real,  because  we  will  not  own  it  to  ourselves  ;  the  satis- 
faction of  seeing  all  our  favourite  and  selfish  ideas  dressed 
up  in  a  garb  so  becoming,  that  we  persuade  ourselves  that 
our  false  pride  is  proper  dignity,  our  ferocity  courage,  our 


How  to  write  a  Fashionable  Novel        193 

cowardice  prudence,  our  irreligion  liberality,  and  our  baser 
appetites  mere  gallantry. 

A.  Very  true,  Barnstaple ;  but  really  I  do  not  like  this 
whirlwind. 

B,  Well,  well,  I  give  it  up  then  ;  it  was  your  own  idea. 
We'll  try  again.  Cannot  you  create  some  difficulty  or 
dilemma,  in  which  to  throw  her,  so  that  the  hero  may  come 
to  her  rescue  with  eclat  ? 

A,  Her  grey  palfrey  takes  fright. 

B,  So  will  your  readers  ;  stale — quite  stale  ! 

A.  A  wild  bull  has  his  horns  close  to  her,  and  is  about 
to  toss  her. 

B,  As  your  book  would  be — away  with  contempt. 
Vapid — quite  vapid  ! 

A.  A  shipwreck — the  waves  are  about  to  close  over  her. 

B.  Your  book  would  be  closed  at  the  same  moment — 
worn  out — quite  worn  out. 

A,  In  the  dead  of  the  night,  a  fire  breaks  out — she  is 
already  in  the  midst  of  the  flames 

B.  Where  your  book  would  also  be,  by  the  disgusted 
reader — worse  and  worse. 

A.  Confound  it — you  will  not  allow  me  to  expose  her  to 
earth,  air,  fire  or  water.  I  have  a  great  mind  to  hang 
her  in  her  garters,  and  make  the  hero  come  and  cut  her 
down. 

B.  You  might  do  worse — and  better. 

A,  What — hang  myself? 

B.  That  certainly  would  put  an  end  to  all  your  diffi- 
culties. But,  Ansard,  I  think  I  can  put  your  heroine  in 
a  situation  really  critical  and  eminently  distressing,  and 
the  hero  shall  come  to  her  relief,  like  the  descent  of  a 
god  to  the  rescue  of  a  Greek  or  Trojan  warrior. 

A.  Or  of  Bacchus  to  Ariadne  in  her  distress. 

B.  Perhaps  a  better  simile.  The  consequence  will  be, 
that  eternal  gratitude  in  the  bosom  of  the  maiden  will 
prove  the  parent  of  eternal  love,  which  eternity  of  passion 
will,  of  course,  last  until  they  are  married." 

A.  I'm  all  attention. 

O  N 


194  ^^^^  Podrida 

B,  Get  up  a  splendid  dinner  party  for  their  first  casual 
meeting.     Place  the  company  at  table. 

^.  Surely  you  are  not  going  to  choke  her  with  the 
bone  of  a  chicken. 

J?.  You  surely  are  about  to  murder  me,  as  Samson 
did  the  Philistines 

^.  With  the  jaw-bone  of  a  fashionable  novel  writer, 
you  mean. 

B.  Exactly.  But  to  proceed : — they  are  seated  at  table  j 
can  you  describe  a  grand  dinner  ? 

y^.  Certainly,  I  have  partaken  of  more  than  one. 

B.  Where? 

ji.  I  once  sat  down  three  hundred  strong  at  the  Free- 
masons' Tavern. 

B.  Ps"haw  !  a  mere  hog  feed. 

^.  Well,  then,  I  dined  with  the  late  lord  mayor. 

B.  Still  worse.  My  dear  Ansard,  it  is  however  of  no 
consequence.  Nothing  is  more  difficult  to  attain,  yet 
nothing  is  more  easy  to  describe,  than  a  good  dinner. 
I  was  once  reading  a  very  fashionable  novel  by  a  very 
fashionable  bookseller,  for  the  author  is  a  mere  nonentity, 
and  was  very  much  surprised  at  the  accuracy  with  which 
a  good  dinner  was  described.  The  mystery  was  explained 
a  short  time  afterwards,  when  casually  taking  up  Eustache 
Eude's  book  in  Sams's  library,  I  found  that  the  author 
had  copied  it  out  exactly  from  the  injunctions  of  that 
celebrated  gastronome.     You  can  borrow  the  book. 

^.  Well,  we  will  suppose  that  done;  but  I  am  all 
anxiety  to  know  what  is  the  danger  from  which  the 
heroine  is  to  be  rescued. 

B.  I  will  explain.  There  are  two  species  of  existence — 
that  of  mere  mortal  existence,  which  is  of  little  conse- 
quence, provided,  like  Caesar,  the  hero  and  heroine  die 
decently :  the  other  is  of  much  greater  consequence, 
which  is  fashionable  existence.  Let  them  once  lose 
caste  in  that  respect,  and  they  are  virtually  dead,  and 
one  mistake,  one  oversight,  is  a  death-blow  for  which 
there  is  no  remedy,  and  from  which  there  is  no  recovery. 


How  to  write  a  Fashionable  Novel       195 

For  instance,  we  will  suppose  our  heroine  to  be  quite 
confounded  with  the  appearance  of  our  hero — to  have 
become  distraite,  reveuse — and,  in  short,  to  have  lost  her 
recollection  and  presence  of  mind.  She  has  been  assisted 
X.Q  fillet  de  soles.  Say  that  the  only  sauce  ever  taken  with 
them  is  au  macedoine — this  is  offered  to  her,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  another,  which  to  eat  with  the  above  dish 
would  be  unheard  of.  In  her  distraction  she  is  about  to 
take  the  wrong  sauce — actually  at  the  point  of  ruining 
herself  for  ever  and  committing  suicide  upon  her  fashion- 
able existence,  while  the  keen  grey  eyes  of  Sir  Antinous 
Antibes,  the  arbiter  of  fashion,  are  fixed  upon  her.  At 
this  awful  moment,  which  is  for  ever  to  terminate  her 
fashionable  existence,  the  Honourable  Augustus  Bouverie, 
who  sits  next  to  her,  gently  touches  her  seduisante  sleeve — 
blandly  smiling,  he  whispers  to  her  that  the  other  is  the 
sauce  macedoine.  She  perceives  her  mistake,  trembles  at 
her  danger,  rewards  him  with  a  smile,  which  penetrates 
into  the  deepest  recesses  of  his  heart,  helps  herself  to  the 
right  sauce,  darts  a  look  of  contemptuous  triumph  upon 
Sir  Antinous  Antibes,  and,  while  she  is  dipping  her  sole 
into  the  sauce,  her  soul  expands  with  gratitude  and  love. 

A,  I  see,  I  see.  Many  thanks  j  my  heroine  is  now  a 
fair  counterpart  of  my  hero. 

"  Ah,  sure  a  pair  were  never  seen, 
So  justly  form'd  to  meet  by  nature." 

B,  And  now  I'll  give  you  another  hint,  since  you  appear 
grateful.  It  is  a  species  of  claptrap  in  a  novel,  which 
always  takes — to  wit,  a  rich  old  uncle  or  misanthrope, 
who,  at  the  very  time  that  he  is  bitterly  offended  and 
disgusted  with  the  hero,  who  is  in  awkward  circumstances, 
pulls  out  a  pocket-book  and  counts  down,  say  fifteen  or 
twenty  thousand  pounds  in  bank  notes,  to  relieve  him 
from  his  difficulties.  An  old  coat  and  monosyllables  will 
increase  the  interest. 

A.  True  {sighing.)  Alas !  there  are  no  such  uncles  in 
real  life  ;  I  wish  there  were. 


196  011a  Podrida 

B,  I  beg  your  pardon ;  I  know  no  time  in  which  my 
wide  forks  out  more  bank  notes  than  at  the  present. 

A.  Yes,  but  it  is  for  value,  or  more  than  value,  received. 

B.  That  I  grant ;  but  I'm  afraid  it  is  the  only  uncle 
left  now ;  except  in  a  fashionable  novel.  But  you  com- 
prehend the  value  of  this  new  auxiliary. 

A.  Nothing  can  be  better.     Barnstaple,  you  are  really 

,  but  I  say  no  more.     If  a  truly  great  man  cannot  be 

flattered  with  delicacy,  it  must  not  be  attempted  at  all; 
silence  then  becomes  the  best  tribute.  Your  advice 
proves  you  to  be  truly  great.  I  am  silenty  therefore  you 
understand  the  full  force  of  the  oratory  of  my  thanks. 

B.  (boiving.)  Well,  Ansard,  you  have  found  out  the 
cheapest  way  of  paying  oiF  your  bills  of  gratitude  I  ever 
heard  of.  "  Poor,  even  in  thanks,"  was  well  said  by 
Shakespeare ;  but  you,  it  appears,  are  rich,  in  having 
nothing  at  all  wherewith  to  pay.  If  you  could  transfer 
the  same  doctrine  to  your  tradesmen,  you  need  not  write 
novels. 

A.  Alas  !  my  dear  fellow,  mine  is  not  yet  written. 
There  is  one  important  feature,  nay,  the  most  important 
feature  of  all — the  style  of  language,  the  diction — on  that, 
Barnstaple,  you  have  not  yet  doctrinated. 

B,  (^pompously.)  When  Demosthenes  was  asked  what 
were  the  three  principal  attributes  of  eloquence,  he 
answered,  that  the  first  was  action ;  on  being  asked  which 
was  the  second,  he  replied,  action ;  and  the  third,  action ; 
and  such  is  the  idea  of  the  Irish  mimhers  in  the  House  of 
Commons.  Now  there  are  three  important  requisites  in  the 
diction  of  a  fashionable  novel.  The  first,  my  dear  fellow, 
is — flippancy  ;  the  second,  flippancy  ;  and  flippancy  is  also 
the  third.  With  the  dull  it  will  pass  for  wit,  with  some 
it  will  pass  for  scorn,  and  even  the  witty  will  not  be 
enabled  to  point  out  the  difference,  without  running  the 
risk  of  being  considered  invidious.  It  will  cover  every 
defect  with  a  defect  still  greater ;  for  who  can  call  small 
beer  tasteless  when  it  is  sour,  or  dull  when  it  is  bottled 
and  has  a  froth  upon  it  ? 


How  to  write  a  Fashionable  Novel       197 

A,  The  advice  is  excellent ;  but  I  fear  that  this  flippancy 
is  as  difficult  to  acquire  as  the  tone  of  true  eloquence. 

B.  Difficult !  I  defy  the  writers  of  the  silver-fork  school 
to  write  out  of  the  style  flippant.     Read  but  one  volume 

of ,  and  you  will  be  saturated  with  it ;  but  if  you  wish 

to  go  to  the  fountain-head,  do  as  have  done  most  of  the 
late  fashionable  novel  writers,  repair  to  their  instructors 
— the  lady's-maid,  for  flippancy  in  the  vein  spirituelle  ;  to  a 
London  footman  for  the  vein  critical ;  but,  if  you  wish  a 
flippancy  of  a  still  higher  order,  at  once  more  solemn  and 
more  empty,  which  I  would  call  the  vein  political,  read  the 
speeches  of  some  of  our  members  of  Parliament.  Only 
read  them  j  I  wish  no  man  so  ill  as  to  inflict  upon  him  the 
torture  of  hearing  them — read  them,  I  say,  and  you  will 
have  taken  the  very  highest  degree  in  the  order  of  inane 
flippancy. 

A.  I  see  it  at  once.  Your  observations  are  as  true  as 
they  are  severe.  When  we  would  harangue  geese,  we 
must  condescend  to  hiss  ;  but  still,  my  dear  Barnstaple, 
though  you  have  fully  proved  to  me  that  in  a  fashionable 
novel  all  plot  is  unnecessary,  don't  you  think  there  ought 
to  be  a  catastrophe,  or  sort  of  a  kind  of  an  end  to  the 
work,  or  the  reader  may  be  brought  up  short,  or  as  the 
sailors  say,  **  all  standing,"  when  he  comes  to  the  word 
*'  Finis,"  and  exclaim  with  an  air  of  stupefaction, — "  And 
then " 

B.  And  then,  if  he  did,  it  would  be  no  more  than  the 
fool  deserved.  I  don't  know  whether  it  would  not  be 
advisable  to  leave  ofl^  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  of  a 
word,  nay  of  a  syllable,  if  it  be  possible  :  I'm  sure  the 
winding-up  would  be  better  than  the  lackadaisical  running- 
down  of  most  of  the  fashionable  novels.  Snap  the  main- 
spring of  your  watch,  and  none  but  an  ass  can  expect  you 
to  tell  by  it  what  it  is  o'clock  ;  snap  the  thread  of  your 
narrative  in  the  same  way,  and  he  must  be  an  unreasonable 
being  who  would  expect  a  reasonable  conclusion.  Finish 
thus,  in  a  case  of  delicate  distress  •,  say,  *'  The  honourable 
Mr  Augustus  Bouverie  was  struck  in  a  heap  with  horror. 


198  Olla  Podrida 

He  rushed  with  a  frantic  grace,  a  deliberate  haste,  and  a 
graceful  awkwardness,  and  whispered  in  her  ear  these 
dread  and  awful  words,  *  It  is  too  late  ! '  "  Follow  up 
with  a —and  Finis. 

A.  I  see ;  the  fair  and  agitated  reader  will  pass  a 
sleepless  night  in  endeavouring  to  decipher  the  mutilated 
sentence.  She  will  fail,  and  consequently  call  the  book 
delightful.  But  should  there  not  have  been  a  marriage 
previously  to  this  happy  awful  climax  ? 

B.  Yes ;  everything  is  arranged  for  the  nuptials — 
carriages  are  sent  home,  jewellery  received  but  not  paid 
for,  dresses  all  tried  on,  the  party  invited — nay,  assembled 
in  the  blue-and-white  drawing-room.  The  right  reverend, 
my  lord  bishop,  is  standing  behind  the  temporary  altar — he 
has  wiped  his  spectacles,  and  thumbed  his  prayer-book — 
all  eyes  are  turned  towards  the  door,  which  opens  not — 
the  bride  faints,  for  the  bridegroom  cometh  not — he's  not 
"  i'  the  vein  " — a  something,  as  like  nothing  as  possible, 
has  given  him  a  disgust  that  is  insurmountable — he  flings 
his  happiness  to  the  winds,  though  he  never  loved  with 
more  outrageous  intensity  than  at  the  moment  he  discards 
his  mistress ;  so  he  fights  three  duels  with  the  two 
brothers  and  father.  He  wounds  one  of  the  young  men 
dangerously,  the  other  slightly  ;  fires  his  pistol  in  the  air 
when  he  meets  her  father — for  how  could  he  take  the  life 
of  him  who  gave  life  to  his  adored  one  ?  Your  hero  can 
always  hit  a  man  just  where  he  pleases — vide  every  novel  in 
Mr  C.'s  collection.  The  hero  becomes  misanthropical,  the 
heroine  maniacal.  The  former  marries  an  antiquated  and 
toothless  dowager,  as  an  escape  from  the  imaginary  disgust 
he  took  at  a  sight  of  a  matchless  woman  ;  and  the  latter 
marries  an  old  brute,  who  threatens  her  life  every  night, 
and  puts  her  in  bodily  fear  every  morning,  as  an  indemnity 
in  full  for  the  loss  of  the  man  of  her  affections.  They 
are  both  romantically  miserable  ;  and  then  come  on  your 
tantalising  scenes  of  delicate  distress,  and  so  the  end  of 
your  third  volume,  and  then  finish  without  any  end  at  alL 
Verb,  sap.  sat.     Or,   if  you  like   it   better,   kill    the  old 


How  to  write  a  Fashionable  Novel        199 

dowager  of  a  surfeit,  and  make  the  old  brute  who  marries 
the  heroine  commit  suicide  ;  and,  after  all  these  unheard-of 
trials,  marry  them  as  fresh  and  beautiful  as  ever. 

A,  A  thousand  thanks.  Your  vet-ba  are  not  thrown  to 
a  sap.  Can  I  possibly  do  you  any  favour  for  all  this  kind- 
ness .'* 

B,  Oh,  my  dear  fellow  !  the  very  greatest.  As  I  see 
yours  will  be,  at  all  points,  a  most  fashionable  novel,  do 
me  the  inestimable  favour  not  to  ask  me  to  read  it. 


How  to  write  a  Book  of  Travels 

Jldr  Ansard^s  Chambers. 

A.  {alone.)  Well,  I  thought  it  hard  enough  to  write  a 
novel  at  the  dictate  of  the  bibliopolist ;  but  to  be  con- 
demned to  sit  down  and  write  my  travels — travels  that 
have  never  extended  farther  than  the  Lincoln's  Inn  Coffee 
House  for  my  daily  food,  and  a  walk  to  Hampstead  on  a 
Sunday.  These  travels  to  be  swelled  into  Travels  up  the 
Rhine  in  the  year  1 8 — .  Why,  it's  impossible.  O  that 
Barnstaple  were  here,  for  he  has  proved  my  guardian 
angel !     Lazy,  clever  dog  ! 

Enter  Barnstaple. 

B.  Pray,  my  dear  Ansard,  to  whom  did  you  apply  that 
last  epithet  ? 

A.  My  dear  Barnstaple,  I  never  was  more  happy  to  see 
you.  Sit  down,  I  have  much  to  tell  you,  all  about  myself 
and  my  difficulties. 

B.  The  conversation  promises  to  be  interesting  to  me, 
at  all  events. 

A.  Everything  is  interesting  to  true  friendship. 

B.  Now  I  perceive  that  you  do  want  something.  Well, 
before  you  state  your  case,  tell  me,  how  did  the  novel  go 
off? 

A.  Wonderfully  well.  It  was  ascribed  to  Lord  G — — : 
the  bait  took,  and  750  went  oiF  in  a  first  edition,  and  the 
remainder  of  the  copies  printed  went  off  in  a  second. 

B.  Without  being  reprinted  .'* 

A.  Exactly.  I  was  surprised  at  my  success,  and  told 
my  publisher  so ;  but  he  answered  that  he  could  sell  an 
edition  of  any  trash  he  pleased. 


How  to  write  a  Book  of  Travels         201 

B,  That  was  not  flattering. 

A.  Not  very ;  but  his  bill  was  honoured,  and  that 
consoled  me.  However,  to  proceed  to  business — he  has 
given  me  another  order — A  Journey  up  the  Rhine,  in  two 
vols,  large  octavo,  in  the  year  1 8 — .  Now,  Barnstaple, 
what's  to  be  done  ? 

B.  "Write  it,  to  be  sure. 

A,  But  you  well  know  I  have  never  been  out  of 
England  in  my  life. 

B.  Never  mind,  write  it. 

A,  Yes,  it's  very  well  to  say  write  it ;  but  how  the 
devil  am  I  to  write  it  ?  Write  what  I  have  never  seen — 
detail  events  which  never  occurred — describe  views  of  that 
which  I  have  not  even  an  idea — travel  post  in  my  old  arm- 
chair.    It's  all  very  well  to  say  write  it,  but  tell  me,  how. 

B,  I  say  again,  write  it,  and  pocket  the  money.  Ansard, 
allow  me  to  state  that  you  are  a  greenhorn.  I  will  make 
this  mountain  of  difficulties  vanish  and  melt  away  like  snow 
before  the  powerful  rays  of  the  sun.  You  are  told  to 
write  what  you  have  never  seen  j  but  if  you  have  not, 
others  have,  which  will  serve  your  purpose  just  as  well. 
To  detail  events  which  have  never  occurred — invent  them, 
they  will  be  more  amusing.  Describe  views,  &c.  of 
which  you  are  ignorant — so  are  most  of  your  readers  ;  but 
have  we  not  the  art  of  engraving  to  assist  you  ?  To 
travel  post  in  your  armchair — a  very  pleasant  and  a  very 
profitable  way  of  travelling,  as  you  have  not  to  pay  for  the 
horses  and  postilions,  and  are  not  knocked  to  pieces  by 
continental  roads.  Depend  upon  it,  the  best  travels  are 
those  written  at  home,  by  those  who  have  never  put  their 
foot  into  the  Calais  packet-boat. 

A.  To  me  this  is  all  a  mystery.  I  certainly  must  be  a 
greenhorn,  as  you  observe. 

B.  Why,  Ansard,  my  dear  fellow,  with  a  book  of  roads 
and  a  gazetteer,  I  would  write  a  more  amusing  book  of 
travels  than  one  half  which  are  now  foisted  on  the  public. 
All  you  have  to  do  is  to  fill  up  the  chinks. 

A.  All  I  want   to  do  is   to  fill  up  the  chinks  in  my 


202  011a  Podrida 

stomach,  Barnstaple ;  for,  between  you  and  me,  times  are 
rather  queer. 

B.  You  shall  do  it,  if  you  will  follow  my  advice.  I 
taught  you  how  to  write  a  fashionable  novel,  it  will  be 
hard,  indeed,  if  I  cannot  send  you  up  the  Rhine.  One 
little  expense  must  be  incurred — you  must  subscribe  a 
quarter  to  a  circulating  library,  for  I  wish  that  what  you 
do  should  be  well  done. 

^.  Barnstaple,  I  will  subscribe  to — anything. 

B.  Well,  then,  since  you  are  so  reasonable,  I  will 
proceed.  You  must  wade  through  all  the  various 
"  Journies  on  the  Rhine,"  "  Two  Months  on  the  Rhine,'* 
"  Autumns  on  the  Rhine,"  &c.,  which  you  can  collect. 
This  you  will  find  the  most  tiresome  part  of  your  task. 
Select  one  as  your  guide,  one  who  has  a  reputation  j 
follow  his  course,  not  exactly — that  I  will  explain  after- 
wards —  and  agree  with  him  in  everything,  generally 
speaking.  Praise  his  exactitude  and  fidelity,  and 
occasionally  quote  him ;  this  is  but  fair :  after  you  rob 
a  man  (and  I  intend  you  shall  rifle  him  most  completely), 
it  is  but  decent  to  give  him  kind  words.  All  others  you 
must  abuse,  contradict,  and  depreciate.  Now,  there  is 
a  great  advantage  in  so  doing  :  in  the  first  place,  you 
make  the  best  writer  your  friend — he  forgets  your 
larcenies  in  your  commendation  of  him,  and  in  your  abuse 
of  others.  If  his  work  be  correct,  so  must  yours  be  -, 
he  praises  it  everywhere — perhaps  finds  you  out,  and  asks 
you  to  dine  with  him. 

A.  How  should  I  ever  look  at  his  injured  face  ? 

B.  On  the  contrary,  he  is  the  obliged  party — your 
travels  are  a  puff  to  his  own. 

-^.  But,  Barnstaple,  allowing  that  I  follow  this  part  of 
your  advice,  which  I  grant  to  be  very  excellent,  how  can 
I  contradict  others,  when  they  may  be,  and  probably  are, 
perfectly  correct  in  their  assertions  ? 

B.  If  they  are  so,  virtue  must  be  its  own  reward.  It 
is  necessary  that  you  write  a  book  of  travels,  and  all 
travellers  contradict  each  other — ergo,  you  must  contradict. 


How  to  write  a  Book  of  Travels         203^ 

or  nobody  will  believe  that  you  have  travelled.  Not  only 
contradict,  but  sneer  at  them. 

A,  Well,  now  do  explain  how  that  is  to  be  done. 

B»  Nothing  more  simple  :  for  instance,  a  man  measures 
a  certain  remarkable  piece  of  antiquity — its  length  is 
747  feet.  You  must  measure  it  over  again,  and  declare 
that  he  is  in  error,  that  it  is  only  727.  To  be  sure  of 
your  being  correct,  measure  it  twice  over,  and  then 
convict  him. 

A.  But  surely,  Barnstaple,  one  who  has  measured  it, 
is  more  likely  to  be  correct  than  one  who  has  not. 

B.  I'll  grant  you  that  he  is  correct  to  half  an  inch^ — 
that's  no  matter.  The  public  will,  in  all  probability,, 
believe  you,  because  you  are  the  last  writer,  and  because 
you  have  decreased  the  dimensions.  Travellers  are 
notorious  for  amplification,  and  if  the  public  do  not 
believe  you,  let  them  go  and  measure  it  themselves. 

A,  A  third  traveller  may  hereafter  measure  it,  and  find 
that  I  am  in  the  wrong. 

B.  Ten  to  one  if  you  are  not  both  in  the  wrong ;  but 
what  matter  will  that  be,  your  book  will  have  been 
sold. 

A,  Most  true,  O  king !  I  perceive  now  the  general 
outline,  and  I  feel  confident,  that  with  your  kind  assistance,^ 
I  may  accomplish  it.  But,  Barnstaple,  the  beginning  is 
everything.  If  I  only  had  the  first  chapter  as  a  start,  I 
think  I  could  get  on.  It  is  the  modus  that  I  want — the 
style.  A  first  chapter  would  be  a  keynote  for  the 
remainder  of  the  tune,  with  all  the  variations. 

B,  Well,  then,  take  up  your  pen.  But  before  I  com- 
mence, it  may  be  as  well  to  observe,  that  there  is  a  certain 
method  required,  even  in  writing  travels.  In  every  chapter 
you  should  have  certain  landmarks  to  guide  you.  For 
instance,  enumerate  the  following,  and  select  the  works 
from  which  they  may  be  obtained,  so  as  to  mix  up  the 
instructive  with  the  amusing.  Travelling — remarks  on 
country  passed  through — anecdote — arrival  at  a  town — 
churches  —  population  —  historical    remarks  —  another 


204  Olla  Podrida 

anecdote — eating  and  drinking — natural  curiosities — egotism 
— remarks  on  the  women  (never  mind  the  men) — another 
anecdote — reflections — an  adventure — and  go  to  bed.  You 
understand,  Ansard,  that  in  these  memoranda  you  have  all 
that  is  required ;  the  rule  is  not  to  be  followed  absolutely, 
but  generally.  As  you  observed,  such  is  to  be  the  tune, 
but  your  variations  may  be  infinite.  When  at  a  loss,  or 
you  think  you  are  dull,  always  call  in  a  grisette,  and  a  little 
mystery ;  and,  above  all,  never  be  afraid  of  talking  too 
much  about  yourself. 

A,  Many,  many  thanks  j  but  now,  my  dear  Barnstaple, 
for  the  first  chapter. 

B,  Let  your  style  be  flowery — I  should  say  florid — never 
mind  a  false  epithet  or  two  in  a  page,  they  will  never  be 
observed.  A  great  deal  depends  upon  the  first  two  pages 
— you  must  not  limp  at  starting  ;  we  will,  therefore,  be 
particular.     Take  your  pen. 

[Barnstaple  muses  for  a  little  while  and  then  cotitinues. 
"A  severe  cough,  which  refused  to  yield  even  to  the 
balmy  influence  of  the  genial  spring  of  1 8 — ,  and  threatened 
a  pulmonary  complaint,  induced  me  to  yield  to  the  reiterated 
persuasions  of  my  physicians  to  try  a  change  of  air,  as  most 
likely  to  ward  off  the  threatened  danger.  Where  to  direct 
my  steps  was  the  difficult  point  to  ascertain.  Brighton, 
Torquay,  Cromer,  Ilfracombe,  had  all  been  visited  and  re- 
visited. At  either  of  these  fashionable  resorts  I  was  certain 
to  fall  in  with  a  numerous  acquaintance,  whose  persuasions 
would  have  induced  me  to  depart  from  that  regularity  of  diet 
and  of  rest,  so  imperiously  insisted  upon  by  my  medical 
advisers.  After  much  cogitation,  I  resolved  upon  a  journey 
up  the  Rhine,  and  to  escape  the  ruthless  winter  of  our 
northern  clime  in  the  more  genial  land  of  history." 

A,  Land  of  history — I  presume  you  mean  Italy  ;  but  am 
I  to  go  there  ? 

B.  No,  you  may  recover,  and  come  back  again  to  skate 
upon  the  Serpentine,  if  you  please.  You  observe,  Ansard, 
I  have  not  made  you  a  fellow  with  ^50  in  his  pocket,  set- 
ting out  to  turn  it  into  ;^3oo  by  a  book  of  travels.     I  have 


How  to  write  a  Book  of  Travels 


205 


avoided  mention  of  Margate,  Ramsgate,  Broadstairs,  and 
all  common  watering-places  ;  I  have  talked  of  physicians  in 
the  plural ;  in  short,  no  one  who  reads  that  paragraph,  but 
will  suppose  that  you  are  a  young  man  of  rank  and  fortune, 
to  whom  money  is  no  object,  and  who  spends  hundreds  to 
cure  that  which  might  be  effected  by  a  little  regularity,  and 
a  few  doses  of  ipecacuanha. 

A,  I  wish  it  were  so.  Nevertheless,  I'll  travel  en  grand 
seigneur — that's  more  agreeable  even  in  imagination,  than 
being  rumbled  in  a  "  diligence. ^^ 

B.  And  will  produce  more  respect  for  your  work,  I 
can  assure  you.  But  to  proceed.  Always,  when  you 
leave  England,  talk  about  hospitality.  The  English  like  it. 
Have  you  no  relations  or  friends  in  whose  opinion  you 
wish  to  stand  well  ?  Public  mention  in  print  does 
wonders,  especially  with  a  copy  handsomely  bound  "  from 
the  author." 

A.  Really,  Barnstaple,  I  do  not  know  any  one.  My 
poor  mother  is  in  Cumberland,  and  that  is  not  en  route.  I 
have  a  maternal  uncle  of  the  name  of  Forster,  who  lives  on 
the  road — a  rich,  old,  miserly  bachelor  ;  but  I  can't  say 
much  for  his  hospitaHty.  I  have  called  upon  him  twice, 
and  he  has  never  even  asked  me  to  dinner. 

B.  Never  mind.  People  like  being  praised  for  a  virtue 
which  they  do  not  possess — it  may  prove  a  legacy.  Say, 
then,  that  you  quitted  the  hospitable  roof  of  your 
worthy  and  excellent-hearted  relation,  Mr  Forster,  and 
felt 

A.  Felt  how  ? 

B.  How — why  you  felt,  as  he  wrung  your  hand,  that 
there  was  a  sudden  dissolution  of  the  ties  of  kindred  and 
affection. 

A.  There  always  has  been  in  that  quarter,  so  my 
conscience  is  so  far  clear. 

B.  You  arrive  at  Dover  (mind  you  spell  i^t  Dover) — go 
to  bed  tired  and  reflective — embark  early  the  next  morning 
— a  rough  passage 

A.  And  sea-sick,  of  course  ? 


2o6  Olla  Podrida 

B,  No,  Ansard,  there  I'll  give  you  a  proof  of  my  tact — 
you  sha'n't  be  sea-sick. 

A.  But  I'm  sure  I  should  be. 

B.  All  travellers  are,  and  all  fill  up  a  page  or  two  with 
complaints,  ad  nauseam — for  that  reason  sick  you  shall  not 
be.  Observe — to  your  astonishment  you  are  not  sea-sick  : 
the  other  passengers  suffer  dreadfully ;  one  young  dandy 
puffs  furiously  at  a  cigar  in  bravado,  until  he  sends  it  over 
the  side,  like  an  arrow  from  the  blow-pipe  of  a  South 
American  Indian.  Introduce  a  husband  with  a  pretty  wife 
— he  jealous  as  a  dog,  until  he  h  sick  as  a  cat — your 
attentions — she  pillowed  on  your  arms,  while  he  hangs 
over  the  lee  gunwale — her  gratitude — safe  arrival  at  Calais 
— sweet  smiles  of  the  lady — sullen  deportment  of  the 
gentleman — a  few  hints — and  draw  the  veil.  Do  you 
understand  ? 

A.  Perfectly.     I  can  manage  all  that. 

B,  Then  when  you  put  your  foot  on  shore,  you  must, 
for  the  first  time,  feel  sea'sick, 

A,  On  shore  ? 

B.  Yes  ;  reel  about,  not  able  to  stand — every  symptom 
as  if  on  board.  Express  your  surprise  at  the  strange 
effect,  pretend  not  to  explain  it,  leave  that  to  medical  men, 
it  being  sufficient  for  you  to  state  the  fact, 

A,  The  fact!     O  Barnstaple  ! 

B.  That  will  be  a  great  hit  for  a  first  chapter.  You 
reverse  the  order  of  things. 

A,  That  I  do  most  certainly.  Shall  I  finish  the  first 
chapter  with  iha.tfact? 

B.  No.  Travellers  always  go  to  bed  at  the  end  of  each 
chapter.  It  is  a  wise  plan,  and  to  a  certain  degree  it  must 
be  followed.  You  must  have  a  baggage  adventure — be 
separated  from  it — some  sharp  little  urchin  has  seized  upon 
your  valise — it  is  no  where  to  be  found — quite  in  despair 
— walk  to  the  hotel  d'Angleterre,  and  find  that  you  are 
met  by  the  landlord  and  gardens,  who  inform  you  that 
your  carriage  is  in  the  remise,  and  your  rooms  ready — 
ascend  to  your  bedroom — find   that  your  baggage  is  not 


How  to  write  a  Book  of  Travels         207 

only  there,  but  neatly  laid  out — your  portmanteau  un- 
strapped —  your  trunk  uncorded  —  and  the  little  rascal 
of  a  commissaire  standing  by  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and 
a  smile  de  malice,  having  installed  himself  as  your  domestique 
de  place — take  him  for  his  impudence — praise  the  "  Cotelettes 
and  the  vin  de  Beaune^^ — wish  the  reader  good-night,  and 
go  to  bed.     Thus  ends  the  first  chapter. 

\Ansard  gets  up  and  takes  Barnstaple^ s  hand,  ivhich 
he  shahs  warmly  luithout  speaking*  Barnstaple 
smiles  and  ivalks  out,  Ansard  is  left  hard  at 
ivork  at  his  desk. 

Arthur  Ansard  in  his  Chambers ,  solus,  with  his  pen 
in  his  hand. 

Ans,  Capital  !  that  last  was  a  hit.  It  has  all  the 
appearance  of  reality.  To  be  sure,  I  borrowed  the  hint, 
but  that  nobody  will  be  able  to  prove.  (Tawns.) 
Heigho  !  I  have  only  got  halfway  on  my  journey  yet,  and 
my  ideas  are  quite  exhausted.  I  am  as  much  worn  out 
and  distressed  as  one  of  the  German  post-horses  which  I 
described  in  my  last  chapter.  {Nods,  and  then  falls  fast 
asleep). 

Barnstaple  taps  at  the  door  ;  receiving  no  answer,  he  enters. 

B.  So — quite  fast.  What  can  have  put  him  to  sleep  ? 
{Reads  the  manuscript  on  the  table).  No  wonder,  enough  to 
put  anybody  to  sleep  apparently.     Why,  Ansard ! 

A.  {starting  up,  still  half  asleep.)  Already  ^  Why,  I've 
hardly  shut  my  eyes.  Well,  I'll  be  dressed  directly  ;  let 
them  get  some  cafe  ready  below.  Henri,  did  you  order 
the  hind-spring  to  be  repaired  ^  {Nods  again  with  his  eyes 
shut.) 

B.  Hallo !  What  now,  Ansard,  do  you  really  think 
that  you  are  travelling  .? 

A.  {waking  up.)  Upon  my  word,  Barnstaple,  I  was  so 
dreaming.  I  thought  I  was  in  my  bed  at  the  hotel  de 
Londres,   after   the   fatiguing   day's  journey  I   described 


2o8  OUa  Podrida 

yesterday.      I    certainly   have   written    myself    into    the 
conviction  that  I  was  travelling  post. 

B.  All  the  better — you  have  embodied  yourself  in  your 
own  work,  which  every  writer  of  fiction  ought  to  do  ;  but 
they  can  seldom  attain  to  such  a  desideratum.  Now,  tell 
me,  how  do  you  get  on  ? 

A.  Thank  you — ^pretty  well.  I  have  been  going  it 
with  four  post-horses  these  last  three  weeks. 

B.  And  how  far  have  you  got  ? 

A,  Half  way — that  is,  into  the  middle  of  my  second 
volume.  But  Fm  very  glad  that  you're  come  to  my 
assistance,  Barnstaple ;  for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  was 
breaking  down. 

B,  Yes,  you  said  something  about  the  hind-spring  of 
your  carriage. 

A.  That  I  can  repair  without  your  assistance ;  but  my 
spirits  are  breaking  down.  I  want  society.  This  travelling 
post  is  dull  work.  Now,  if  I  could  introduce  a  com- 
panion  

B.  So  you  shall.  At  the  next  town  that  you  stop  at, 
buy  a  Poodle. 

A.  A  Poodle!  Barnstaple?  How  the  devil  shall  I  be 
assisted  by  a  poodle  ? 

B.  He  will  prove  a  more  faithful  friend  to  you  in  your 
exigence,  and  a  better  companion,  than  one  of  your  own 
species.  A  male  companion,  after  all,  is  soon  expended, 
and  a  female,  which  would  be  more  agreeable,  is  not 
admissible.  If  you  admit  a  young  traveller  into  your 
carriage — what  then  ?  He  is  handsome,  pleasant,  romantic, 
and  so  forth  5  but  you  must  not  give  his  opinions  in 
contradiction  to  your  own,  and  if  they  coincide,  it  is 
superfluous.  Now,  a  poodle  is  a  dog  of  parts,  and  it  is 
more  likely  that  you  fall  in  with  a  sagacious  dog  than  with 
a  sagacious  man.  The  poodle  is  the  thing ;  you  must 
recount  your  meeting,  his  purchase,  size,  colour,  and 
qualifications,  and  anecdotes  of  his  sagacity,  vouched  for 
by  the  landlord,  and  all  the  garfons  of  the  hotel.  As  you 
proceed  on  your  travels,  his  attachment  to  you  increases. 


How  to  write  a  Book  of  Travels         209 

and  wind   up  every  third   chapter  with   "  your   faithful 
Mouton." 

A.  Will  not  all  that  be  considered  frivolous  ? 

B,  Frivolous  !  by  no  means.  The  frivolous  will  like  it, 
and  those  who  have  more  sense,  although  they  may  think 
that  Mouton  does  not  at  all  assist  your  travelling  researches, 
are  too  well  acquainted  with  the  virtues  of  the  canine  race, 
and  the  attachment  insensibly  inbibed  for  so  faithful 
an  attendant,  not  to  forgive  your  affectionate  mention 
of  him.  Besides  it  will  go  far  to  assist  the  versimilitude 
of  your  travels.  As  for  your  female  readers,  they  will 
prefer  Mouton  even  to  you. 

A.  All-powerful  and  mighty  magician,  whose  wand  of 
humbug,  like  that  of  Aaron's,  swallows  up  ail  others,  not 
excepting  that  of  divine  Truth,  I  obey  you  !  Mouton  shall 
be  summoned  to  my  aid  :  he  shall  flourish,  and  my  pen 
shall  flourish  in  praise  of  his  endless  perfections.  But, 
Barnstaple,  what  shall  I  give  for  him  ? 

B.  {thinks  awhile.')     Not  less  than  forty  louis. 

A.  Forty  louis  for  a  poodle ! 

B.  Most  certainly ;  not  a  sous  less.  The  value  of  any- 
thing in  the  eyes  of  the  world  is  exactly  what  it  costs. 
Mouton,  at  a  five  franc  piece,  would  excite  no  interest  j 
and  his  value  to  the  reader  will  increase  in  proportion  to 
his  price,  which  will  be  considered  an  undeniable  proof  of 
all  his  wonderful  sagacity,  with  which  you  are  to  amuse 
the  reader. 

A.  But  in  what  is  to  consist  his  sagacity  ? 

B.  He  must  do  everything  but  speak.  Indeed,  he  must 
so  far  speak  as  to  howl  the  first  part  of  "Lieber  Augustin." 

A.  His  instinct  shall  put  our  boasted  reason  to  the  blush. 

But I  think  I  had  better  not  bring  him  home  with 

me. 

B.  Of  course  not.  In  the  first  place,  it's  absolutely 
necessary  to  kill  him,  lest  his  reputation  should  induce 
people  to  seek  him  out,  which  they  would  do,  although, 
in  all  probability,  they  never  will  his  master.  Lady  Cork 
would  certainly  invite  him  to  a  literary  soiree.     You  must 

o  o 


210  Olla  Podrida 

therefore  kill  him  in  the  most  effective  way  possible,  and 
you  will  derive  the  advantage  of  filling  up  at  least  ten 
pages  with  his  last  moments — licking  your  hand,  your  own 
lamentations,  violent  and  inconsolable  grief  on  the  part  of 
Henri,  and  tanning  his  skin  as  a  memorial. 

A,  A  beautiful  episode,  for  which  receive  my  best 
thanks.  But,  Barnstaple,  I  have  very  few  effective 
passages  as  yet.  I  have  remodelled  several  descriptions 
of  mountains,  precipices,  waterfalls,  and  such  wonders  of 
the  creation — expressed  my  contempt  and  surprise  at  the 
fear  acknowledged  by  other  travellers,  in  several  instances. 
I  have  lost  my  way  twice — met  three  wolves — been  four 
times  benighted — and  indebted  to  lights  at  a  distance  for  a 
bed  at  midnight,  after  the  horses  have  refused  to  proceed. 
All  is  incident,  and  I  am  quite  hard  up  for  description. 

Now,  I  have  marked  down  a  fine  passage  in 's  work 

— a  beautiful  description  of  a  cathedral,  with  a  grand 
procession.  (Reads.)  "  What  with  the  effect  of  the  sun's 
brightest  beams  upon  the  ancient  glass  windows — various 
hues  reflected  upon  the  gothic  pillars — gorgeousness  of 
the  procession — sacerdotal  ornaments — tossing  of  censers 
— crowds  of  people — elevation  of  the  host,  and  sinking 
down  of  the  populace  en  masse."  It  really  is  a  magnificent 
line  of  writing,  and  which  my  work  requires.  One  or  two 
like  that  in  my  book  would  do  well  to  be  quoted  by 
impartial  critics,  before  the  public  are  permitted  to  read  it. 
But  here,  you  observe,  is  a  difficulty.  I  dare  not  borrow 
the  passage. 

JB.  But  you  shall  borrow  it — you  shall  be  even  finer 
than  he  is,  and  yet  he  shall  not  dare  to  accuse  you  of 
plagiarism. 

A.  How  is  that  possible,  my  dear  Barnstaple  ?  I'm  all 
impatience. 

B.  His  description  is  at  a  certain  hour  of  the  day.  All 
you  have  to  do  is  to  portray  the  scene  in  nearly  the  same 
words.  You  have  as  much  right  to  visit  a  cathedral  as  he 
has,  and  as  for  the  rest — here  is  the  secret.  You  must 
visit  it  at  night.     Instead  of  "glorious  beams,"  you  will 


How  to  write  a  Book  of  Travels         211 

talk  of  "  pale  melancholy  light  -, "  instead  of  "  the  stained 
windows  throwing  their  various  hues  upon  the  gothic  pile," 
you  must  **  darken  the  massive  pile,  and  light  up  the 
windows  with  the  silver  rays  of  the  moon."  The  glorious 
orb  of  day  must  give  place  to  thousands  of  wax  tapers — 
the  splendid  fretwork  of  the  roof  you  must  regret  was  not 
to  be  clearly  distinguished — but  you  must  be  in  ecstacies 
with  the  broad  light  and  shade — the  blaze  at  the  altar — 
solemn  hour  of  night — feelings  of  awe — half  a  Catholic — 
religious  reflections,  &c.     Don't  you  perceive  ? 

A,  I  do.  Like  the  rest  of  my  work,  it  shall  be  all 
moonshine.  It  shall  be  done,  Barnstaple ;  but  have  you 
not  another  idea  or  two  to  help  me  with  ? 

B.  Have  you  talked  about  cooks  ? 

A.  As  yet,  not  a  word. 

B.  By  this  time  you  ought  to  have  some  knowledge  of 
gastronomy.     Talk  seriously  about  eating. 

A,  (writes.)  I  have  made  a  mem. 

B.  Have  you  had  no  affront  ? 

A.  Not  one. 

B,  Then  be  seriously  affronted — complain  to  the  burgo- 
master, or  mayor,  or  commandant,  whoever  it  may  be — 
they  attempt  to  bully — you  are  resolute  and  firm  as  an 
Englishman — insist  upon  being  righted — they  must  make 
you  a  thousand  apologies.  This  will  tickle  the  national 
vanity,  and  be  read  with  interest. 

A.  (writes.)  I  have  been  affronted.  Anything  else 
which  may  proceed  from  your  prolific  brain,  Barnstaple  ? 

B.  Have  you  had  a  serious  illness  ? 

A.  Never  complained  even  of  a  headache. 

B.  Then  do  everything  but  die — Henri  weeping  and 
inconsolable — Mouton  howling  at  the  foot  of  your  bed — 
kick  the  surgeons  out  of  :he  room — and  cure  yourself  with 
three  dozen  of  champagne. 

A.  (writes.)  Very  sick — cured  with  three  dozen  of 
champagne — I  wish  the  illness  would  in  reality  come  on, 
if  I  were  certain  of  the  cure  gratis.  Go  on,  my  dear 
Barnstaple. 


212  Olla  Podrida 

B.  You  may  work  in  an  episode  here — delirium — lucid 
intervals  —  gentle  female  voice  —  delicate  attentions — • 
mysterious  discovery  from  loquacious  landlady — eternal 
gratitude — but  no  marriage — an  apostrophe — and  all  the 
rest  left  to  conjecture. 

A.  {writes  down?)  Silent  attentions — conjecture — I  can 
manage  that,  I  think. 

B.  By-the-bye,  have  you  brought  in  Madame  de  Stael  ? 

A.  No — how  the  devil  am  I  to  bring  her  in  ? 

B.  As  most  other  travellers  do,  by  the  head  and 
shoulders.  Never  mind  that,  so  long  as  you  bring  her 
in. 

A.  {writes.')  Madame  de  Stael  by  the  shoulders — that's 
not  very  polite  towards  a  lady.  These  hints  are  in- 
valuable ;  pray  go  on. 

B,  Why,  you  have  already  more  hints  this  morning 
than  are  sufficient  for  three  volumes.  But,  however,  let 
me  see.     {B.  thinks  a  little.)     Find  yourself  short  of  cash. 

A.  A  sad  reality,  Barnstaple.  I  shall  write  this  part 
well,  for  truth  will  guide  my  pen. 

B.  All  the  better.  But  to  continue — no  remittances — 
awkward  position — explain  your  situation — receive  credit 
to  any  amount — and  compliment  your  countrymen. 

A.  {writes.)  Credit  to  any  amount — pleasing  idea  ? 
But  I  don't  exactly  perceive  the  value  of  this  last  hint, 
Barnstaple. 

B.  Ail  judicious  travellers  make  it  a  point,  throughout 
the  whole  of  their  works,  to  flatter  the  nation  upon  its 
wealth,  name,  and  reputation  in  foreign  countries ;  by 
doing  so  you  will  be  read  greedily,  and  praised  in  due 
proportion.  If  ever  I  were  to  write  my  travels  into  the 
interior  of  Africa,  or  to  the  North  Pole,  I  would  make  it 
a  point  to  discount  a  bill  at  Timbuctoo,  or  get  a  cheque 
cashed  by  the  Esquimaux,  without  the  least  hesitation  in 
either  case.  I  think  now  that  what  with  your  invention, 
your  plagiarism,  and  my  hints,  you  ought  to  produce  a 
very  effective  Book  of  Travels ;  and  with  that  feeling  I 
shall  leave  you  to  pursue  your  journey,  and  receive,  at 


How  to  write  a  Book  of  Travels         213 

its  finale,  your  just  reward.  When  we  meet  again,  I  hope 
to  see  you  advertised. 

A,  Yes,  but  not  exposed,  I  trust.  I  am  inccg,  you 
know. 

-S.  To  be  sure,  that  will  impart  an  additional  interest 
to  your  narrative.  All  the  world  will  be  guessing  who 
you  may  be.     Adieu,  voyageur.  \Exit  Barnstaple. 

A,  And  heaven  forfend  that  they  should  find  me  out. 
But  what  can  be  done  ?  In  brief,  I  cannot  get  a  brief, 
and  thus  I  exercise  my  professional  acquirements  how 
I  can,  proving  myself  as  long-winded,  as  prosy  perhaps, 
and  certainly  as  lying,  as  the  more  fortunate  of  my 
fraternity. 


How  to  write  a  Romance 


Mr  Arthur  Ansard^  standing  at  his  table,  selecting  a  steel  pen 
from  a  card  on  which  a  dozen  are  ranged  up,  like  soldiers 
on  parade, 

I  MUST  find  a  regular  graver  to  write  this  chapter  of 
horrors.     No  goose  quill  could  afford  me  any  assistance. 

Now  then.     Let  me  see (Reads,  and  during  his  reading 

Barnstaple  comes  in  at  the  door  behind  him,  unperceived,) 
**  At  this  most  monstrously  appalling  sight,  the  hair  of 
Piftlianteriscki  raised  slowly  the  velvet  cap  from  off  his 
head,  as  if  it  had  been  perched  upon  the  rustling  quills  of 
some  exasperated  porcupine — (I  think  that's  new) — his 
nostrils  dilated  to  that  extent  that  you  might,  with  ease, 
have  thrust  a  musket  bullet  into  each — his  mouth  was 
opened  so  wide,  so  unnaturally  wide,  that  the  corners  were 
rent  asunder,  and  the  blood  slowly  trickled  down  each  side 
of  his  bristly  chin — while  each  tooth  loosened  from  its 
socket  with  individual  fear. — Not  a  word  could  he  utter, 
for  his  tongue,  in  its  fright,  clung  with  terror  to  his  upper 
jaw,  as  tight  as  do  the  bellies  of  the  fresh  and  slimy  soles, 
paired  together  by  some  fishwoman ;  but  if  his  tongue  was 
paralysed,  his  heart  was  not — it  throbbed  against  his  ribs 
with  a  violence  which  threatened  their  dislocation  from  the 
sternum,  and  with  a  sound  which  reverberated  through 

the  dark,  damp  subterrene ."      I  think  that  will  do. 

There's y^r^-^  there. 

B.  There  is,  with  a  vengeance.     Why,  what  is  all  this  ? 

A.  My  dear  Barnstaple,  you  here  ?  Fm  writing  a 
romance  for  B .  It  is  to  be  supposed  to  be  a  trans- 
lation. 


How  to  write  a  Romance  215 

B,  The  Germans  will  be  infinitely  obliged  to  you  ;  but, 
my  dear  fellow,  you  appear  to  have  fallen  into  the  old 
school — that's  no  longer  in  vogue. 

A.  My  orders  are  for  the  old  school.     B was  most 

particular  on  that  point.     He  says  that  there  is  a  re-action 
— a  great  re-action. 

B.  What,  on  literature  ?  Well,  he  knows  as  well  as 
any  man.  I  only  wish  to  God  there  was  in  everything 
else,  and  we  could  see  the  good  old  times  again. 

A.  To  confess  the  truth,  I  did  intend  to  have  finished 
this  without  saying  a  word  to  you.  I  wished  to  have 
surprised  you. 

B.  So  you  have,  my  dear  fellow,  with  the  few  lines  I 
have  heard.  How  the  devil  are  you  to  get  your  fellow 
out  of  that  state  of  asphyxia  ? 

A.  By  degrees — slowly — very  slowly — as  they  pretend 
that  we  lawyers  go  to  heaven.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I 
have  done,  just  to  give  you  an  idea  of  my  work.  In  the 
first  place,  I  have  a  castle  perched  so  high  up  in  the  air, 
that  the  eagles,  even  in  their  highest  soar,  appear  but  as 
wrens  below. 

B.  That's  all  right. 

A,  And  then  it  has  subterraneous  passages,  to  which 
the  sewers  of  London  are  a  mere  song,  and  they  all  lead  to 
a  small  cave  at  high  water  mark  on  the  sea-beach,  covered 
with  brambles  and  bushes,  and  just  large  enough  at  its 
entrance  to  admit  of  a  man  squeezing  himself  in. 

B.  That's  all  right.  You  cannot  be  too  much  under- 
ground ;  in  fact,  the  two  first,  and  the  best  part  of  the 
third  volume,  should  be  wholly  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 
and  your  hero  and  heroine  should  never  come  to  light  until 
the  last  chapter. 

A,  Then  they  would  never  have  been  born  till  then, 
and  how  could  I  marry  them  ?  But  still  I  have  adhered 
pretty  much  to  your  idea ;  and,  Barnstaple,  I  have  such  a 
heroine — such  a  love — she  has  never  seen  her  sweetheart, 
yet  she  is  most  devotedly  attached,  and  has  suffered  more 
for  his  sake  than  any  mortal  could  endure. 


2i6  Olla  Podrida 

JB.  Most  heroines  generally  do. 

^.  I  have  had  her  into  various  dungeons  for  three  or 
four  years,  on  black  bread  and  a  broken  pitcher  of  water — 
she  has  been  starved  to  death — lain  for  months  and  months 
upon  wet  straw — had  two  brain  fevers — five  times  has  she 
risked  violation,  and  always  has  picked  up,  or  found  in  the 
belt  of  her  infamous  ravishers,  a  stiletto,  which  she  has 
plunged  into  their  hearts,  and  they  have  expired  with  or 
without  a  groan. 

B.  Excellent :  and  of  course  comes  out  of  her  dungeons 
each  time  as  fresh,  as  sweet,  as  lovely,  as  pure,  as  charming, 
and  as  constant  as  ever. 

^.  Exactly  ;  nothing  can  equal  her  infinite  variety  of 
adventure,  and  her  imperishable  beauty  and  unadhesive 
cleanliness  of  person  ;  and,  as  for  lives,  she  has  more  than 
a  thousand  cats.  After  nine  months'  confinement  in  a 
dungeon,  four  feet  square,  when  it  is  opened  for  her 
release,  the  air  is  perfumed  with  the  ambrosia  which 
exhales  from  her  sweet  person. 

B.  Of  course  it  does.  The  only  question  is,  what 
ambrosia  smells  like.  But  let  me  know  something  about 
your  hero. 

^.  He  is  a  prince  and  a  robber. 

B.  The  two  professions  are  not  at  all  incompatible.  Go 
on. 

j4.  He  is  the  chief  of  a  band  of  robbers,  and  is  here, 
there,  and  everywhere.  He  fills  all  Europe  with  terror, 
admiration,  and  love. 

B.  Very  good. 

^.  His  reasons  for  joining  the  robbers  are,  of  course,  a 
secret  (and  upon  my  word  they  are  equally  a  secret  to  my- 
self) ;  but  it  is  wonderful  the  implicit  obedience  of  his  men, 
and  the  many  acts  of  generosity  of  which  he  is  guilty.  I 
make  him  give  away  a  great  deal  more  money  than  his  whole 
band  ever  take,  which  is  so  far  awkward,  that  the  query 
may  arise  in  what  way  he  keeps  them  together,  and  supplies 
them  with  food  and  necessaries. 

B.  Of  course  with  /  0  IPs  upon  his  princely  domains. 


How  to  write  a  Romance  217 

A.  I  have  some  very  grand  scenes,  amazingly  effective  j 
for  instance,  what  do  you  think,  at  the  moment  after  the 
holy  mass  has  been  performed  in  St  Peter's  at  Rome,  just 
as  the  pope  is  about  to  put  the  sacred  wafer  into  his 
mouth  and  bless  the  whole  world,  I  make  him  snatch  the 
wafer  out  of  the  pope's  hand,  and  get  clear  off  with  it. 

B,  What  for,  may  I  ask  ? 

A.  That  is  a  secret  which  I  do  not  reveal.  The  whole 
arrangement  of  that  part  of  the  plot  is  admirable.  The 
band  of  robbers  are  disguised  as  priests,  and  officiate, 
without  being  found  out. 

B,  But  isn't  that  rather  sacrilegious  ? 

A,  No ;  it  appears  so  to  be,  but  he  gives  his  reasons  for 
his  behaviour  to  the  pope,  and  the  pope  is  satisfied,  and  not 
only  gives  him  his  blessing,  but  shows  him  the  greatest 
respect. 

B.  They  must  have  been  very  weighty  reasons. 

A.  And  therefore  they  are  not  divulged. 

B.  That  is  to  say,  not  until  the  end  of  the  work. 

A,  They  are  never  divulged  at  all  j  I  leave  a  great  deal 
to  the  reader's  imagination — people  are  fond  of  conjecture. 
All  they  know  is,  that  he  boldly  appears,  and  demands  an 
audience.  He  is  conducted  in,  the  interview  is  private, 
after  a  sign  made  by  our  hero,  and  at  which  the  pope 
almost  leaps  off  his  chair.  After  an  hour  he  comes  out 
again,  and  the  pope  bows  him  to  the  very  door.  Every 
one  is  astonished,  and,  of  course,  almost  canonise  him. 

B.  That's  going  it  rather  strong  in  a  Catholic  country. 
But  tell  me,  Ansard,  what  is  your  plot  ? 

A.  Plot !  I  have  none. 

B.  No  plot  ! 

A.  No  plot,  and  all  plot.  I  puzzle  the  reader  with 
certain  materials.  I  have  castles  and  dungeons,  corridors 
and  creaking  doors,  good  villains  and  bad  villains.  Chain 
armour  and  clank  of  armour,  daggers  for  gentlemen,  and 
stilettos  for  ladies.  Dark  forests  and  brushwood,  drinking 
scenes,  eating  scenes,  and  sleeping  scenes — robbers  and 
friars,  purses  of  gold  and  instruments  of  torture,  an  in- 


2i8  Olla  Podrida 

carnate  devil  of  a  Jesuit,  a  handsome  hero,  and  a  lovely 
heroine.     I  jumble  them   all  together,  sometimes  above, 
and  sometimes  underground,  and  I  explain  nothing  at  all. 
B.  Have  you  nothing  supernatural  ? 

A.  O  yes  !  I've  a  dog  whose  instinct  is  really  super- 
natural, and  I  have  two  or  three  visions,  which  may  be 
considered  so,  as  they  tell  what  never  else  could  have  been 
been  known.  I  decorate  my  caverns  and  dungeons  with 
sweltering  toads  and  slimy  vipers,  a  constant  dropping  of 
water,  with  chains  too  ponderous  to  lift,  but  which  the 
parties  upon  whom  they  are  riveted,  clang  together  as  they 
walk  up  and  down  in  their  cells,  and  soliloquise.  So 
much  for  my  underground  scenery.  Above,  I  people  the 
halls  with  pages  and  ostrich  feathers,  and  knights  in  bright 
armour,  a  constant  supply  of  generous  wine,  and  goblets 
too  heavy  to  lift,  which  the  knights  toss  off  at  a  draught, 
as  they  sit  and  listen  to  the  minstrel's  music. 

B.  Bravo,  Ansard,  bravo.  It  appears  to  me  that  you 
do  not  want  assistance  in  this  romance. 

A.  No,  when  I  do  I  have  always  a  holy  and  com- 
passionate friar,  who  pulls  a  wonderful  restorative  or 
healing  balm,  out  of  his  bosom.  The  puffs  of  Solomon's 
Balm  of  Gilead  are  a  fool  to  the  real  merits  of  my 
pharmacopoeia  contained  in  a  small  vial. 

B.  And  pray  what  may  be  the  title  of  this  book  of 
yours,  for  I  have  known  it  take  more  time  to  fix  upon  a 
title  than  to  write  the  three  volumes. 

A.  I  call  it  The  Undiscovered  Secret,  and  very  properly 
so  too,  for  it  never  is  explained.  But  if  you  please,  I  will 
read  you  some  passages  from  it.  I  think  you  will  approve 
of  them.  For  instance,  now  let  us  take  this,  in  the 
second  volume.  You  must  know,  that  Angelicanarinelia 
(for  that  is  the  name  of  my  heroine)  is  thrown  into  a 
dungeon  not  more  than  four  feet  square,  but  more  than 
six  hundred  feet  below  the  surface  of  the  earth.  The 
ways  are  so  intricate,  and  the  subterranean  so  vast,  and  the 
dungeons  so  numerous  that  the  base  Ethiop,  who  has 
obeyed  his  master's  orders  in  confining  her,  has  himself 


How  to  write  a  Romance  219 

been  lost  in  the  labyrinth,  and  has  not  been  able  to  dis- 
cover what  dungeon  he  put  her  in.  For  three  days  he 
has  been  looking  for  it,  during  which  our  heroine  has 
been  without  food,  and  he  is  still  searching  and  scratching 
his  woolly  head  in  despair,  as  he  is  to  die  by  slow  torture, 
if  he  does  not  reproduce  her — for  you  observe,  the  chief 
who  has  thrown  her  into  this  dungeon  is  most  desperately 
in  love  with  her. 

B,  That  of  course ;  and  that  is  the  way  to  prove 
romantic  love — you  ill-treat — but  still  she  is  certainly  in  a 
dilemma,  as  well  as  the  Ethiop. 

A,  Granted  ;  but  she  talks  like  the  heroine  of  a  romance. 
Listen.  (Ansard  reads.)  "  The  beauteous  and  divinely- 
moulded  form  of  the  angelic  Angelicanarinella  pressed  the 
dank  and  rotten  straw,  which  had  been  thrown  down  by 
the  scowling,  thick-lipped  Ethiop  for  her  repose — she,  for 
whom  attendant  maidens  had  smoothed  the  Sybaritic  sheet 
of  finest  texture,  under  the  elaborately  carved  and 
sumptuously  gilt  canopy,  the  silken  curtains,  and  the  tassels 
of  the  purest  dust  of  gold." 

B.  Tassels  of  dust  of  gold  !  only  figuratively,  I  suppose. 
A.  Nothing    more.     "  Each    particular    straw    of    this 

dank,  damp  bed  was  elastic  with  delight,  at  bearing  such 
angelic  pressure ;  and,  as  our  heroine  cast  her  ineffably 
beaming  eyes  about  the  dark  void,  lighting  up  with  their 
effulgent  rays  each  little  portion  of  the  dungeon,  as  she 
glanced  them  from  one  part  to  another,  she  perceived  that 
the  many  reptiles  enclosed  with  her  in  this  narrow  tomb, 
were  nestling  to  her  side,  their  eyes  fixed  upon  her  in  mute 
expressions  of  love  and  admiration.  Her  eclipsed  orbs  were 
each,  for  a  moment,  suffused  with  a  bright  and  heavenly  tear, 
and  from  the  suffusion  threw  out  a  more  brilliant  light  upon 
the  feeling  reptiles  who  paid  this  tribute  to  her  undeserved 
sufferings.  She  put  forth  her  beauteous  hand,  whose  'faint 
tracery,' — (I  stole  that  from  Cooper,) — whose  faint  tracery 
had  so  often  given  to  others  the  idea  that  it  was  ethereal, 
and  not  corporeal,  and  lifting  with  all  the  soft  and  tender 
handling  of  first  love  a  venerable  toad,  which  smiled  upon 


220  OUa  Podrida 

her,  she  placed  the  interesting  animal  so  that  it  could 
crawl  up  and  nestle  in  her  bosom.  *  Poor  child  of  dank, 
of  darkness,  and  of  dripping,'  exclaimed  she,  in  her  flute- 
like notes,  *  who  sheltereth  thyself  under  the  wet  and 
mouldering  wall,  so  neglected  in  thy  form  by  thy  mother 
Nature,  repose  awhile  in  peace  where  princes  and  nobles 
would  envy  thee,  if  they  knew  thy  present  lot.  But  that 
shall  never  be ;  these  lips  shall  never  breathe  a  tale  which 
might  endanger  thy  existence ;  fear  not,  therefore,  their 
enmity,  and  as  thou  slowly  creepest  away  thy  little  round 
of  circumscribed  existence,  forget  me  not,  but  shed  an 
occasional  pearly  tear  to  the  memory  of  the  persecuted, 
the  innocent  Angelicanarinelia  ! ' "  What  d'ye  think  of 
that  ? 

B.  Umph !  a  very  warm  picture  certainly ;  however, 
it  is  natural.  You  know,  a  person  of  her  consequence 
could  never  exist  without  a  little  toadyism. 

A,  I  have  a  good  many  subterraneous  soliloquies, 
which  would  have  been  lost  forever,  if  I  did  not  bring 
them  up. 

B.  That  one  you  have  just  read  is  enough  to  make 
everybody  else  bring  up. 

A.  I  rather  plume  myself  upon  it. 

B.  Yes,  it  is  a  feather  in  your  cap,  and  will  act  as  a 
feather  in  the  throat  of  your  readers. 

A.  Now  I'll  turn  over  the  second  volume,  and  read 
you  another  morceau,  in  which  I  assume  the  more  playful 
vein.  I  have  imitated  one  of  our  modern  writers,  who 
must  be  correct  in  her  language,  as  she  knows  all  about 
heroes  and  heroines.  I  must  confess  that  I've  cribbed 
a  little. 

B.  Let's  hear. 

A.  "  The  lovely  Angelicanarinelia  pottered  for  some 
time  about  this  fairy  chamber,  then  '  wrote  journal.'  At 
last,  she  threw  herself  doivn  on  the  floor ,  pulled  out  the 
miniature,  gulped  when  she  looked  at  it,  and  then  cried 
herself  to  sleep. 

B.  Pottered  and  gulped  !    What  language  do  you  call  that  ? 


How  to  write  a  Romance  221 

A.  It's  all  right,  my  dear  fellov/.  I  understand  that 
it  is  the  refined  slang  of  the  modern  boudoir,  and  only 
known  to  the  initiated. 

B,  They  had  better  keep  it  entirely  to  their  boudoirs. 
I  should  advise  you  to  leave  it  all  out. 

A,  Well,  I  thought  that  one  who  was  so  very  particular, 
must  have  been  the  standard  of  perfection  herself. 

B.  That  does  not  at  all  follow. 

A.  But  what  I  wish  to  read  to  you  is  the  way  in  which 
I  have  managed  that  my  secret  shall  never  be  divulged. 
It  is  known  only  to  four. 

B.  A  secret  known  to  four  people  !  You  must  be  quick 
then. 

A,  So  I  am,  as  you  shall  hear ;  they  all  meet  in  a  dark 
gallery,  but  do  not  expect  to  meet  any  one  but  the  hero, 
whom  they  intend  to  murder,  each  one  having,  unknown 
to  the  others,  made  an  appointment  with  him  for  that 
purpose,  on  the  pretence  of  telling  him  the  great  secret. 
Altogether  the  scene  is  well  described,  but  it  is  long,  so 
I'll  come  at  once  to  the  denouement. 

B.  Pray  do. 

A,  "  Absenpresentini  felt  his  way  by  the  slimy  wall, 
when  the  breath  of  another  human  being  caught  his  ear : 
he  paused,  and  held  his  own  breath.  *  No,  no,'  muttered 
the  other,  *  the  secret  of  blood  and  gold  shall  remain  with  me 
alone.  Let  him  come,  and  he  shall  find  death.'  In  a 
second,  the  dagger  of  Absenpresentini  was  in  the  mutterer's 
bosom  : — he  fell  without  a  groan.  '  To  me  alone  the  secret 
of  blood  and  gold,  and  with  me  it  remains,'  exclaimed 
Absenpresentini.  '  It  does  remain  with  you,'  cried  Phos- 
phorini,  driving  his  dagger  into  his  back  : — Absenpresentini 
fell  without  a  groan,  and  Phosphorini,  withdrawing  his 
dagger,  exclaimed,  *  Who  is  now  to  tell  the  secret  but  me  ? ' 
*  Not  you,'  cried  Vortiskini,  raising  up  his  sword  and  strik- 
ing at  where  the  voice  proceeded.  The  trusty  steel  cleft  the 
head  of  the  abandoned  Phosphorini,  who  fell  without  a 
groan.  *  Now  will  I  retain  the  secret  of  blood  and  gold,' 
said  Vortiskini,  as  he  sheathed  his  sword.     *  Thou  shalt,' 


222  Olla  Podrida 

exclaimed  the  wily  Jesuit,  as  he  struck  his  stiletto  to  the 
heart  of  the  robber,  who  fell  without  a  groan.  *  With  me 
only  does  the  secret  now  rest,  by  which  our  order  might 
be  disgraced ;  with  me  it  dies,'  and  the  Jesuit  raised  his 
hand.  *  Thus  to  the  glory  and  the  honour  of  his  society 
does  Manfredini  sacrifice  his  life.'  He  struck  the  keen- 
pointed  instrument  into  his  heart,  and  died  without  a  groan. 
*  Stop,'  cried  our  hero." 

B.  And  I  agree  with  your  hero :  stop,  Ansard,  or  you'll 
kill  me  too — but  not  without  a  groan. 

A.  Don't  you  think  it  would  act  well  ? 

B.  Quite  as  well  as  it  reads  ;  pray  is  it  all  like  this  ? 

A.  You  shall  judge  for  yourelf.  I  have  half  killed  my- 
self with  writing  it,  for  I  chew  opium  every  night  to  obtain 
ideas.     Now  again 

B.  Spare  me,  Ansard,  spare  me ;  my  nerves  are  rather 
delicate ;  for  the  remainder  I  will  take  your  word. 

A.  I  wish  my  duns  would  do  the  same,  even  if  it  were 
only  my  washerwoman  •,  but  there's  no  more  tick  for  me 
here,  except  this  old  watch  of  my  father's,  which  serves  to 
remind  me  of  what  I  cannot  obtain  from  others — time  ;  but, 
however,  there  is  a  time  for  all  things,  and  when  the  time 
comes  that  my  romance  is  ready,  my  creditors  will  obtain 
the  ready. 

B.  Your  only  excuse,  Ansard. 

A.  I  beg  your  pardon.  The  public  require  strong 
writing  now-a-days.  We  have  thousands  who  write 
well,  and  the  pubHc  are  nauseated  with  what  is  called  good 
nvriting, 

B.  And  so  they  want  something  bad,  eh  ?  Well, 
Ansard,  you  certainly  can  supply  them. 

A.  My  dear  Barnstaple,  you  must  not  disparage  this 
style  of  writing — it  is  not  bad — there  is  a  great  art  in  it. 
It  may  be  termed  writing  intellectual  and  ethereal.  You 
observe,  that  it  never  allows  probabilities  or  even  possibili- 
ties to  stand  in  its  way.  The  dross  of  humanity  is  rejected: 
all  the  common  wants  and  grosser  feelings  of  our  natures 
are  disallowed.     It  is  a  novel  which  is  all  mind  and  passion. 


How  to  write  a  Romance  223 

Corporeal  attributes  and  necessities  are  thrown  on  one  side, 
as  they  would  destroy  the  charm  of  perfectability.  Nothing 
can  soil,  or  defile,  or  destroy  my  heroine ;  suffering  adds 
lustre  to  her  beauty,  as  pure  gold  is  tried  by  fire :  nothing 
can  kill  her,  because  she  is  all  mind.     As  for  my  men,  you 

will  observe  when  you  read  my  work 

B,  When  I  do  ! 

A.  Which,  of  course,  you  will — that  they  also  have 
their  appetites  in  abeyance  ;  they  never  want  to  eat,  or 
drink,  or  sleep — are  always  at  hand  when  required, 
without  regard  to  time  or  space.  Now  there  is  a  great 
beauty  in  this  description  of  writing.  The  women  adore 
it  because  they  find  their  sex  divested  of  those  human 
necessities,  without  which  they  would  indeed  be  angels  ! 
the  mirror  is  held  up  to  them,  and  they  find  themselves 
perfect — no  wonder  they  are  pleased.  The  other  sex  are 
also  very  glad  to  dwell  upon  female  perfectability,  which 
they  can  only  find  in  a  romance,  although  they  have  often 
dreamt  of  it  in  their  younger  days. 

B,  There  is  some  truth  in  these  remarks.  Every 
milliner's  girl,  who  devours  your  pages  in  bed  by  the  half- 
hour's  light  of  tallow  stolen  for  the  purpose,  imagines  a 
strong  similarity  between  herself  and  your  Angelicanari- 
nella,  and  every  shop-boy  measuring  tape  or  weighing 
yellow  soap  will  find  out  attributes  common  to  himself  and 
to  your  hero. 

A.  Exactly.  As  long  as  you  draw  perfection  in  both 
sexes,  you  are  certain  to  be  read,  because  by  so  doing  you 
flatter  human  nature  and  self-love,  and  transfer  it  to  the 
individual  who  reads.     Now  a  picture  of  real  life 

B.  Is  like  some  of  Wouvermans'  best  pictures,  which 
will  not  be  purchased  by  many,  because  his  dogs  in  the 
fore-ground  are  doing  exactly  what  all  dogs  will  naturally 
do  when  they  first  are  let  out  of  their  kennels. 

A,  Wouvermans  should  have  known  better,  and  made  his 
dogs  better  mannered  if  he  expected  his  pictures  to  be  hung 
up  in  the  parlour  of  refinement. 

B.  Very  true. 


2  24  OUa  Podrida 

A,  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  have  another  passage  or 
two. 

B,  Excuse  me :  I  will  imagine  it  all.  I  only  hope, 
Ansard,  this  employment  will  not  interfere  with  your  legal 
practice. 

A,  My  dear  Barnstaple,  it  certainly  will  not,  because  my 
legal  practice  cannot  be  interfered  with.  I  have  been 
called  to  the  bar,  but  find  no  employment  in  my  calling. 
I  have  been  sitting  in  my  gown  and  wig  for  one  year,  and 
may  probably  sit  a  dozen  more,  before  I  have  to  rise  to 
address  their  lordships.  I  have  not  yet  had  a  guinea  brief. 
My  only  chance  is,  to  be  sent  out  as  judge  to  Sierra  Leone, 
or  perhaps  to  be  made  a  commissioner  of  the  Court  of 
Requests. 

B.  You  are  indeed  humble  in  your  aspirations.  I  recol- 
lect the  time,  Ansard,  when  you  dreamt  of  golden  fame, 
and  aspired  to  the  wool-sack — when  your  ambition 
prompted  you  to  midnight  labour,  and  you  showed  an 
energy 

A.  {putting  his  hands  up  to  his  forehead,  luith  his  elbows  on 
the  table.)  What  can  I  do,  Barnstaple  ?  If  I  trust  to  briefs, 
my  existence  will  be  but  brief — we  all  must  live. 

B.  I  will  not  reply  as  Richelieu  did  to  a  brother  author, 
"  Je  ne  vois  pas  la  necessite,"  but  this  I  do  say,  that  if  you 
are  in  future  to  live  by  supplying  the  public  with  such 
nonsense,  the  shorter  your  existence  the  better. 


S.W.  and  by  W.  f  W. 

Jack  Littlebrain  was,  physically  considered,  as  fine 
grown,  and  moreover  as  handsome  a  boy  as  ever  was  seen, 
but  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  he  was  not  very  clever. 
Nature  is,  in  most  instances,  very  impartial ;  she  has  given 
plumage  to  the  peacock,  but,  as  everyone  knows,  not  the 
slightest  ear  for  music.  Throughout  the  feathered  race  it 
is  almost  invariably  the  same  ;  the  homeliest  clad  are  the 
finest  songsters.  Among  animals  the  elephant  is  certainly 
the  most  intelligent,  but,  at  the  same  time,  he  cannot  be 
considered  as  a  beauty.  Acting  upon  this  well  ascertained 
principle,  nature  imagined,  that  she  had  done  quite  enough 
for  Jack  when  she  endowed  him  with  such  personal  per- 
fection ;  and  did  not  consider  it  was  at  all  necessary  that 
he  should  be  very  clever  j  indeed,  it  must  be  admitted 
not  only  that  he  was  not  very  clever,  but  (as  the  truth 
must  be  told)  remarkably  dull  and  stupid.  However,  the 
Littlebrains  have  been  for  a  long  while  a  well-known, 
numerous,  and  influential  family,  so  that,  if  it  were  possible 
that  Jack  could  have  been  taught  anything,  the  means 
were  forthcoming :  he  was  sent  to  every  school  in  the 
country  ;  but  it  was  in  vain ;  at  every  following  vacation, 
he  was  handed  over  from  the  one  pedagogue  to  the  other, 
of  those  whose  names  were  renowned  for  the  Busbian 
system  of  teaching  by  stimulating  both  ends :  he  was 
horsed  every  day  and  still  remained  an  ass,  and  at  the  end 
of  six  months,  if  he  did  not  run  away  before  that  period 
was  over,  he  was  invariably  sent  back  to  his  parents  as 
incorrigible  and  unteachable.  What  was  to  be  done  with 
him  ?  The  Littlebrains  had  always  got  on  in  the  world, 
o  p  "s 


226  Olla  Pod/ida 

somehow  or  another,  by  their  interest  and  connections  ; 
but  here  was  one  who  might  be  said  to  have  no  brains  at 
all.  After  many  pros  and  consy  and  after  a  variety  of  con- 
sulting letters  had  passed  between  the  various  members  of 
his  family,  it  was  decided,  that  as  his  maternal  uncle,  Sir 
Theophilus  Blazers,  G.C.B.,  was  at  that  time  the  second 
in  command  in  the  Mediterranean,  he  should  be  sent  to  sea 
under  his  command  ;  the  Admiral,  having  in  reply  to  a 
letter  on  the  subject,  answered  that  it  was  hard  indeed  if 
he  did  not  lick  him  into  some  shape  or  another ;  and  that, 
at  all  events,  he'd  warrant  that  Jack  should  be  able  to  box 
the  compass  before  he  had  been  three  months  nibbling  the 
ship's  biscuit ;  further,  that  it  was  very  easy  to  get  over 
the  examination  necessary  to  qualify  him  for  lieutenant,  as 
a  turkey  and  a  dozen  of  brown  stout  sent  in  the  boat  with 
him  on  the  passing  day,  as  a  present  to  each  of  the  passing 
captains,  would  pass  him,  even  if  he  were  as  incompetent 
as  a  camel  (or,  as  they  say  at  sea,  a  cable,)  to  pass  through 
the  eye  of  a  needle ;  that  having  once  passed,  he  would 
soon  have  him  in  command  of  a  fine  frigate,  with  a  good 
nursing  first  lieutenant ;  and  that  if  he  did  not  behave 
himself  properly,  he  would  make  his  signal  to  come  on 
board  of  the  flag-ship,  take  him  into  the  cabin,  and  give 
him  a  sound  horsewhipping,  as  other  admirals  have  been 
known  to  inflict  upon  their  own  sons  under  similar  circum- 
stances. The  reader  must  be  aware  that,  from  the  tenour 
of  Sir  Theophilus's  letter,  the  circumstances  which  we  are 
narrating  must  have  occurred  some  fifty  years  ago. 

When  Jack  was  informed  that  he  was  to  be  a  midship- 
man, he  looked  up  in  the  most  innocent  way  in  the  world 
(and  innocent  he  was,  sure  enough),  turned  on  his  heels, 
and  whistled  as  he  went  for  want  of  thought.  For  the  last 
three  months  he  had  been  at  home,  and  his  chief  employ- 
ment was  kissing  and  romping  with  the  maids,  who  declared 
him  to  be  the  handsomest  Littlebrain  that  the  country  had 
ever  produced.  Our  hero  viewed  the  preparations  made 
for  his  departure  with  perfect  indifference,  and  wished 
everybody   good-bye   with   the   utmost   composure.      He 


S.W.  and  by  W.    |  W.  227 

was  a  happy,  good-tempered  fellow  who  never  calculated, 
because  he  could  not ;  never  decided,  for  he  had  not  wit 
enough  to  choose  ;  never  foresaw,  although  he  could  look 
straight  before  him  ;  and  never  remembered,  because  he 
had  no  memory.  The  line,  "If  ignorance  is  bliss,  'tis 
folly  to  be  wise,"  was  certainly  made  especially  for  Jack : 
nevertheless  he  was  not  totally  deficient :  he  knew  what 
was  good  to  eat  or  drink,  for  his  taste  was  perfect,  his 
eyes  were  very  sharp,  and  he  could  discover  in  a  moment 
if  a  peach  was  ripe  on  the  wall  •,  his  hearing  was  quick, 
for  he  was  the  first  in  the  school  to  detect  the  footsteps 
of  his  pedagogue ;  and  he  could  smell  anything  savoury 
nearly  a  mile  off,  if  the  wind  lay  the  right  way.  More- 
over, he  knew  that  if  he  put  his  fingers  in  the  fire  that 
he  would  burn  himself;  that  knives  cut  severely;  that 
birch  tickled,  and  several  other  little  axioms  of  this  sort 
which  are  generally  ascertained  by  children  at  an  early 
age,  but  which  Jack's  capacity  had  not  received  until  at 
a  much  later  date.  Such  as  he  was,  our  hero  went  to 
sea ;  his  stock  in  his  sea-chest  being  very  abundant,  while 
his  stock  of  ideas  was  proportionally  small. 

We  will  pass  over  all  the  trans-shipments  of  Jack  until 
he  was  eventually  shipped  on  board  of  the  Mendacious, 
then  lying  at  Malta  with  the  flag  of  Sir  Theophilus  Blazers 
at  the  fore — a  splendid  ship,  carrying  120  guns,  and  nearly 
120  midshipmen  of  different  calibres.  (I  pass  over  captain, 
lieutenant,  and  ship's  company,  having  made  mention  of 
her  most  valuable  qualifications.)  Jack  was  received  with 
a  hearty  welcome  by  his  uncle,  for  he  came  in  pudding- 
time,  and  was  invited  to  dinner;  and  the  Admiral  made 
the  important  discovery,  that  if  his  nephew  was  a  fool 
in  other  points,  he  was  certainly  no  fool  at  his  knife  and 
fork.  In  a  short  time  his  messmates  found  out  that  he 
was  no  fool  at  his  fists,  and  his  knock-down  arguments 
€nded  much  disputation.  Indeed,  as  the  French  would 
say,  Jack  was  perfection  in  the  physique,  although  so  very 
deficient  in  the  morale. 

But  if  Pandora's  box  proved  a  plague   to  the  whole 


228  Olla  Podrida 

world,  Jack  had  his  individual  portion  of  it,  when  he  was 
summoned  to  box  the  compass  by  his  worthy  uncle  Sir 
Theophilus  Blazers ;  who  in  the  course  of  six  months 
discovered  that  he  could  not  make  his  nephew  box  it  in 
the  three,  which  he  had  warranted  in  his  letter;  every 
day  our  hero's  ears  were  boxed,  but  the  compass  never. 
It  required  all  the  cardinal  virtues  to  teach  him  the  cardinal 
points  during  the  forenoon,  and  he  made  a  point  of  for- 
getting them  before  the  sun  went  down.  Whenever  they 
attempted  it  (and  various  were  the  teachers  employed  to 
drive  the  compass  into  Jack's  head)  his  head  drove  round 
the  compass ;  and  try  all  he  could.  Jack  never  could 
compass  it.  It  appeared,  as  some  people  are  said  only  to 
have  one  idea,  as  if  Jack  could  only  have  one  point  in  his 
head  at  a  time,  and  to  that  point  he  would  stand  like  a 
well-broken  pointer.  With  him  the  wind  never  changed 
until  the  next  day.  His  uncle  pronounced  him  to  be  a 
fool,  but  that  did  not  hurt  his  nephew's  feelings  j  he  had 
been  told  so  too  often  already. 

I  have  said  that  Jack  had  a  great  respect  for  good  eating 
and  drinking,  and,  moreover,  was  blessed  with  a  good 
appetite :  every  person  has  his  peculiar  fancies,  and  if 
there  was  anything  which  more  titillated  the  palate  and 
olfactory  nerves  of  our  hero,  it  was  a  roast  goose  with 
sage  and  onions.  Now  it  so  happened,  that  having  been 
about  seven  months  on  board  of  the  Mendacious,  Jack  had 
one  day  received  a  summons  to  dine  with  the  Admiral, 
for  the  steward  had  ordered  a  roast  goose  for  dinner, 
and  knew  not  only  that  Jack  was  partial  to  it,  but  also 
that  Jack  was  the  Admiral's  nephew,  which  always  goes 
for  something  on  board  of  a  flag-ship.  Just  before  they 
v/ere  sitting  down  to  table,  the  Admiral  wishing  to  know 
how  the  wind  was,  and  having  been  not  a  little  vexed 
with  the  slow  progress  of  his  nephew's  nautical  acquire- 
ments, said,  "  Now,  Mr  Littlebrain,  go  up,  and  bring  me 
down  word  how  the  wind  is ;  and  mark  me,  as,  when 
you  are  sent,  nine  times  out  of  ten  you  make  a  mistake, 
I  shall  now  bet  you  five  guineas  against  your  dinner,  that 


S.W.  and  by  W.  }  W.  229 

you  make  a  mistake  this  time :  so  now  be  off  and  we  will 
soon  ascertain  whether  you  lose  your  dinner  or  I  lose  my 
money.  Sit  down,  gentlemen ;  we  will  not  wait  for  Mr 
Littlebrain." 

Jack  did  not  much  admire  this  bet  on  the  part  of  his 
uncle,  but  still  less  did  he  like  the  want  of  good  manners 
in  not  waiting  for  him.  He  had  just  time  to  see  the 
covers  removed,  to  scent  a  whiff  of  the  goose,  and  was  off. 

"  The  Admiral  wants  to  know  how  the  wind  is,  sir," 
said  Jack  to  the  officer  of  the  watch. 

The  officer  of  the  watch  went  to  the  binnacle,  and 
setting  the  wind  as  nearly  as  he  could,  replied,  "Tell  Sir 
Theophilus  that  it  is  S.TF.  and  by  W,  |  WP 

"That's  one  of  those  confounded  long  points  that  I 
never  can  remember,"  cried  Jack,  in  despair. 

"Then  you'll  ^ get  goose ^  as  the  saying  is,"  observed 
one  of  the  midshipmen. 

"  No ;  I'm  afraid  that  I  sha'n't  get  any,"  replied  Jack, 
despondingly.  "What  did  he  say,  S.W.  and  by  N. 
fE.?" 

"  Not  exactly,'*  replied  his  messmate,  who  was  a  good- 
natured  lad,  and  laughed  heartily  at  Jack's  version. 
"  S.W.  and  by  W.  f  W." 

"  I  never  can  remember  it,"  cried  Jack.  "  I'm  to  have 
five  guineas  if  I  do,  and  no  dinner  if  I  don't ;  and  if  I  stay 
here  much  longer,  I  shall  get  no  dinner  at  all  events,  for 
they  are  all  terribly  peckish,  and  there  will  be  none  left." 

"  Well,  if  you'll  give  me  one  of  the  guineas,  I'll  show 
you  how  to  manage  it,"  said  the  midshipman. 

"  I'll  give  you  two,  if  you'll  only  be  quick  and  the  goose 
a'n't  all  gone,"  replied  Jack. 

The  midshipman  wrote  down  the  point  from  which  the 
wind  blew,  at  full  length,  upon  a  bit  of  paper,  and  pinned 
it  to  the  rim  of  Jack's  hat.  "  Now,"  said  he,  "  when  you 
go  into  the  cabin,  you  can  hold  your  hat  so  as  to  read  it, 
without  their  perceiving  you." 

"  Well,  so  I  can  j  I  never  should  have  thought  of  that," 
said  Jack. 


230  011a  Podrida 

"You  hav'n't  wit  enough,"  replied  the  midship- 
man. 

"Well,  I  see  no  wit  in  the  compass,"  replied  Jack. 

"  Nevertheless,  it's  full  of  point,"  replied  the  midship- 
man ;  "  now  be  quick." 

Our  hero's  eyes  served  him  well,  if  his  memory  was 
treacherous  ;  and  as  he  entered  the  cabin  door  he  bowed 
over  his  hat  very  politely,  and  said,  as  he  read  it  off, 
"S.W.  and  by  W.  f  W.,"  and  then  he  added,  without 
reading  at  all,  "  if  you  please,  Sir  Theophilus." 

"  Steward,"  said  the  Admiral,  "  tell  the  officer  of  the 
watch  to  step  down." 

"  How's  the  wind,  Mr  Growler  ?  " 

«  S.W.  and  by  W.  f  W.,"  replied  the  officer. 

"  Then,  Mr  Littlebrain,  you  have  won  your  five  guineas, 
and  may  now  sit  down  and  enjoy  your  dinner." 

Our  hero  was  not  slow  in  obeying  the  order,  and 
ventured,  upon  the  strength  of  his  success,  to  send  his 
plate  twice  for  goose.  Having  eaten  their  dinner,  drunk 
their  wine,  and  taken  their  coffee,  the  officers,  at  the  same 
time,  took  the  hint  which  invariably  accompanies  the  latter 
beverage,  made  their  bows  and  retreated.  As  Jack  was 
following  his  seniors  out  of  the  cabin,  the  Admiral  put  the 
sum  which  he  had  staked  into  his  hands,  observing,  that 
"  it  was  an  ill  wind  that  blew  nobody  good." 

So  thought  Jack,  who,  having  faithfully  paid  the  mid- 
shipman the  two  guineas  for  his  assistance,  was  now  on  the 
poop  keeping  his  watch,  as  midshipmen  usually  do ;  that 
is,  stretched  out  on  the  signal  lockers,  and  composing 
himself  to  sleep  after  the  most  approved  fashion,  answering 
the  winks  of  the  stars  by  blinks  of  his  eyes,  until  at  last  he 
shut  them  to  keep  them  warm.  But,  before  he  had  quite 
composed  himself,  he  thought  of  the  goose  and  the  five 
guineas.  The  wind  was  from  the  same  quarter,  blowing 
soft  and  mild  ;  Jack  lay  in  a  sort  of  reverie,  as  it  fanned 
his  cheek,  for  the  weather  was  close  and  sultry. 

"  Well,"  muttered  Jack  to  himself,  "  I  do  love  that 
point  of  the  compass,  at  all  events,  and  I  think  that  I  never 


S.W.  and  by  W.   f  W.  231 

shall  forget  S.W.  and  by  W.  |  W.  No  I  never — never 
liked  one  before,  though " 

"  Is  that  true  ?  "  whispered  a  gentle  voice  in  his  ear ; 
"  do  you  love  *  S.W.  and  by  W.  |  W.,'  and  will  you,  as 
you  say,  never  forget  her  ?  " 

"  Why,  what's  that .? "  said  Jack,  opening  his  eyes,  and 
turning  half  round  on  his  side. 

"  It's  me — *  S.W.  and  by  W.  f  W.,'  that  you  say  you 
love." 

Littlebrain  raised  himself  and  looked  round ; — there 
was  no  one  on  the  poop  except  himself  and  two  or  three 
of  the  after-guard,  who  were  lying  down  between  the 
guns.  "Why,  who  was  it  that  spoke?"  said  Jack, 
much  astonished. 

"  It  was  the  wind  you  love,  and  who  has  long  loved 
you,"  replied  the  same  voice  -,  "do  you  wish  to  see  me  ?  " 

"  See  you, — see  the  wind? — I've  been  already  sent  on 
that  message  by  the  midshipmen,"  thought  Jack. 

"Do  you  love  me  as  you  say,  and  as  I  love  you?" 
continued  the  voice. 

"  Well,  I  like  you  better  than  any  other  point  of  the 
compass,  and  I'm  sure  I  never  thought  I  should  like  one 
of  them,"  replied  Jack. 

"  That  will  not  do  for  me  ;  will  you  love  only  me  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  likely  to  love  the  others,"  replied  Jack, 
shutting  his  eyes  again  ,  "  I  hate  them  all." 

"  And  love  me  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  do  love  you,  that's  a  fact,"  replied  Jack,  as 
he  thought  of  the  goose  and  the  five  guineas. 

"  Then  look  round,  and  you  shall  see  me,"  said  the 
soft  voice. 

Jack,  who  hardly  knew  whether  he  was  asleep  or 
awake,  did  at  this  summons  once  more  take  the  trouble 
to  open  his  eyes,  and  beheld  a  fairy  female  figure,  pellucid 
as  water,  yet  apparently  possessing  substance  ;  her  features 
were  beautifully  soft  and  mild,  and  her  outline  trembled 
and  shifted  as  it  were,  waving  gently  to  and  fro.  It 
smiled  sweetly,  hung  over  him,  played  with  his  chestnut- 


232 


Olla  Podrida 


curls,  softly  touched  his  lips  with  her  own,  passed  her 
trembling  fingers  over  his  cheeks,  and  its  warm  breath 
appeared  as  if  it  melted  into  his.  Then  it  grew  more 
bold, — embraced  his  person,  searched  into  his  neck  and 
collar,  as  if  curious  to  examine  him. 

Jack  felt  a  pleasure  and  gratification  which  he  could 
not  well  comprehend :  once  more  the  charmer's  lips 
trembled  upon  his  own,  now  remaining  for  a  moment, 
now  withdrawing,  again  returning  to  kiss  and  kiss  again, 
and  once  more  did  the  soft  voice  put  the  question — 

*'  Do  you  love  me  ? " 

**  Better  than  goose,"  replied  Jack. 

"  I  don't  know  who  goose  may  be,"  replied  the  fairy 
form,  as  she  tossed  about  Jack's  waving  locks ;  "  you 
must  love  only  me,  promise  me  that  before  I  am  relieved." 

**  What,  have  you  got  the  first  watch,  as  well  as  me  ? " 
replied  Jack. 

"  I  am  on  duty  just  now,  but  I  shall  not  be  so  long. 
We  southerly  winds  are  never  kept  long  in  one  place ; 
some  of  my  sisters  will  probably  be  sent  here  soon." 

"  I  don't  understand  what  you  talk  about,"  replied 
Jack.  "  Suppose  you  tell  me  who  you  are,  and  what 
you  are,  and  I'll  do  all  I  can  to  keep  awake ;  I  don't  know 
how  it  is,  but  I've  felt  more  inclined  to  go  to  sleep  since 
you  have  been  fanning  me  about,  than  I  did  before." 

**  Then  I  will  remain  by  your  side  while  you  listen  to 
me.     I  am,  as  I  told  you,  a  wind " 

"  That's  puzzHng,"  said  Jack,  interrupting  her. 

"  My  name  is  *  S.  W.  and  by  W.  |  W.' " 

**  Yes,  and  a  very  long  name  it  is.  If  you  wish  me  to 
remember  you,  you  should  have  had  a  shorter  one." 

This  ruffled  the  wind  a  little,  and  she  blew  rather 
sharp  into  the  corner  of  Jack's  eye, — however,  she  pro- 
ceeded— 

"  You  are  a  sailor,  and  of  course  you  know  all  the  winds 
on  the  compass  by  name." 

"  I  wish  I  did ;  but  I  don't,"  replied  Littlebrain,  "  I 
can  recollect  you,  and  not  one  other." 


S.W.  and  by  W.  f  W.  233 

Again  the  wind  trembled  with  delight  on  his  lips,  and 
she  proceeded : — "  You  know  that  there  are  thirty-two 
points  on  the  compass,  and  these  points  are  divided  into 
quarters  ;  so  that  there  are,  in  fact,  1 28  different  winds." 

"  There  are  more  than  I  could  ever  remember  ;  I  know 
that,"  said  Jack. 

"  Well,  we  are  in  all  1 28.  All  the  winds  which  have 
northerly  in  them,  are  coarse  and  ugly ;  all  the  southern 
winds  are  pretty." 

**  You  don't  say  so  ?  "  replied  our  hero. 

"  We  are  summoned  to  blow,  as  required,  but  the 
hardest  duty  generally  falls  to  the  northerly  winds,  as  it 
should  do,  for  they  are  the  strongest ;  although  we 
southerly  winds  can  blow  hard  enough  when  we  choose. 
Our  characters  are  somewhat  different.  The  most  unhappy 
in  disposition,  and  I  may  say,  the  most  malevolent,  are  the 
north  and  easterly  winds  ;  the  N.W.  winds  are  powerful, 
but  not  unkind  ;  the  S.E.  winds  vary,  but,  at  all  events, 
we  of  the  S.W.  are  considered  the  mildest  and  most  bene- 
ficent.    Do  you  understand  me  ?  " 

"  Not  altogether.  You  re  going  right  round  the  com- 
pass, and  I  never  could  make  it  out,  that's  a  fact.  I  hear 
what  you  say,  but  I  cannot  promise  to  recollect  it ;  I  can 
only  recollect  S.W.  and  by  W.  j  W." 

**  I  care  only  for  your  recollecting  me  ;  if  you  do  that, 
you  may  forget  all  the  rest.  Now  you  see  we  South 
Wests  are  summer  winds,  and  are  seldom  required  but  in 
this  season ;  I  have  often  blown  over  your  ship  these  last 
three  months,  and  I  always  have  lingered  near  you,  for  I 
loved  you." 

"  Thank  you — now  go  on,  for  seven  bells  have  struck 
some  time,  and  I  shall  be  going  to  turn  in.  Is  your  watch 
out  ? " 

**  No,  I  shall  blow  for  some  hours  longer.  Why  will 
you  leave  me — why  wo'n't  you  stay  on  deck  with  me  ?  " 

"  What,  stay  on  deck  after  my  watch  is  out !  No,  if  I 
do,  blow  me  !  We  midshipmen  never  do  that — but  I  say, 
why   can't   you   come    down   with  me,   and  turn   in   my 


234  C)lla  Podrida 

hammock ;  it's  close  to  the  hatchway,  and  you  can  easily 
do  it." 

"Well,  I  will,  upon  one  promise.  You  say  that  you 
love  me,  now  I'm  very  jealous,  for  we  winds  are  always 
supplanting  one  another.  Promise  me  that  you  will  never 
mention  any  other  wind  in  the  compass  but  me,  for  if  you 
do,  they  may  come  to  you,  and  if  I  hear  of  it  I'll  blow  the 
masts  out  of  your  ship,  that  I  will." 

"  You  don't  say  so  .? "  replied  Jack,  surveying  her  fragile, 
trembling  form. 

"  Yes,  I  will,  and  on  a  lee  shore  too  y  so  that  the  ship 
shall  go  to  pieces  on  the  rocks,  and  the  Admiral  and  every 
soul  on  board  her  be  drowned." 

**  No,  you  wouldn't,  would  you  ?  "  said  our  hero,  aston- 
ished. 

"  Not  if  you  promise  me.  Then  I'll  come  to  you  and 
pour  down  your  windsails,  and  dry  your  washed  clothes  as 
they  hang  on  the  rigging,  and  just  ripple  the  waves  as  you 
glide  along,  and  hang  upon  the  lips  of  my  dear  love,  and 
press  him  in  my  arms.  Promise  me,  then,  on  no  account 
ever  to  recollect  or  mention  any  other  wind  but  me." 

"Well,  I  think  I  may  promise  that,"  replied  Jack,  "  for 
I'm  very  clever  at  forgetting  ;  and  then  you'll  come  to  my 
hammock,  wo'n't  you,  and  sleep  with  me  ?  you'll  be  a  nice 
cool  bedfellow  these  warm  nights." 

"  I  can't  sleep  on  my  watch  as  midshipmen  do  ;  but  I'll 
watch  you  while  you  sleep,  and  I'll  fan  your  cheeks,  and 
keep  you  cool  and  comfortable,  till  I'm  relieved." 

"  And  when  you  go,  when  will  you  come  again  ? " 

"  That  I  cannot  tell — when  I'm  summoned  ;  and  I  shall 
wait  with  impatience,  that  you  may  be  sure  of." 

**  There's  eight  bells,"  said  Jack,  starting  up  ;  "I  must 
go  down  and  call  the  officer  of  the  middle  watch  ;  but  I'll 
soon  turn  in,  for  my  relief  is  not  so  big  as  myself,  and  I 
can  thrash  him." 

Littlebrain  was  as  good  as  his  word  5  he  cut  down  his 
relief,  and  then  thrashed  him  for  venturing  to  expostulate. 
The  consequence  was,  that  in  ten  minutes  he  was  in  his 


S.W.  and  by  W.   f  W.  23s 

hammock,  and  "  S.W.  and  by  W.  f  W."  came  gently  down 
the  hatchway,  and  rested  in  his  arms.  Jack  soon  fell  fast 
asleep,  and  when  he  was  wakened  up  the  next  morning  by 
the  quarter-master,  his  bedfellow  was  no  longer  there.  A 
mate  inquiring  how  the  wind  was,  was  answered  by  the 
quarter-master  that  they  had  a  fresh  breeze  from  the 
N.N.W.,  by  which  Jack  understood  that  his  sweetheart 
was  no  longer  on  duty. 

Our  hero  had  passed  such  a  happy  night  with  his  soft 
and  kind  companion,  that  he  could  think  of  nothing  else ; 
he  longed  for  her  to  come  again,  and,  to  the  surprise  of 
everybody,  was  now  perpetually  making  inquiries  as  to 
the  wind  which  blew.  He  thought  of  her  continually ; 
and  in  fact  was  as  much  in  love  with  "  S.W.  and  by 
W.  J  W."  as  he  possibly  could  be.  She  came  again — 
once  more  did  he  enjoy  her  delightful  company  ;  again 
she  slept  with  him  in  his  hammock,  and  then,  after  a 
short  stay,  she  was  relieved  by  another. 

We  do  not  intend  to  accuse  the  wind  of  inconstancy, 
as  that  was  not  her  fault ;  nor  of  treachery,  for  she 
loved  dearly  ;  nor  of  violence,  for  she  was  all  softness 
and  mildness  •,  but  we  do  say,  that  "  S.W.  and  by 
W.  J  W."  was  the  occasion  of  Jack  being  very  often 
in  a  scrape,  for  our  hero  kept  his  word ;  he  forgot  all 
other  winds,  and,  with  him,  there  was  no  other  except 
his  dear  "  S.W.  and  by  W.  f  W."  It  must  be  admitted 
of  Jack,  that,  at  all  events,  he  showed  great  perseverance, 
for  he  stuck  to  his  point. 

Our  hero  would  argue  with  his  messmates,  for  it  is 
not  those  who  are  most  capable  of  arguing  who  are 
most  fond  of  itj  and,  like  all  arguers  not  very  briUiant, 
he  would  flounder  and  diverge  away  right  and  left,  just 
as  the  flaws  of  ideas  came  into  his  head. 

"  What  nonsense  it  is  your  talking  that  way,"  would 
his  opponent  say,  "  Why  don't  you  come  to  the  point  ? " 

"  And  so  I  do,"  cried  Jack. 

"  Well  then,  what  is  your  point  ?  " 

"S.W.  and  by  W.  f  W.,"  replied  our  hero. 


236  OUa  Podrida 

Who  could  reply  to  this  ?  But  in  every  instance,  and 
through  every  difficulty,  our  hero  kept  his  promise,  until 
his  uncle  Sir  Theophilus  was  very  undecided,  whether 
he  should  send  him  home  to  be  locked  up  in  a  Lunatic 
Asylum,  or  bring  him  on  in  the  service  to  the  rank  of 
post-captain.  Upon  mature  consideration,  however,  as 
a  man  in  Bedlam  is  a  very  useless  member  of  society, 
and  a  tee-total  non-productive,  whereas  a  captain  in 
the  navy  is  a  responsible  agent,  the  Admiral  came  to 
the  conclusion,  that  Littlebrain  must  follow  up  his 
destiny. 

At  last.  Jack  was  set  down  as  the  greatest  fool  in  the 
ship,  and  was  pointed  out  as  such.  The  ladies  observed, 
that  such  might  possibly  be  the  case,  but  at  all  events 
he  was  the  handsomest  young  man  in  the  Mediterranean 
fleet.  We  believe  that  both  parties  were  correct  in  their 
assertions. 

Time  flies — even  a  midshipman's  time,  which  does  not 
fly  quite  so  fast  as  his  money — and  the  time  came  for 
Mr  Littlebrain's  examination.  Sir  Theophilus,  who  now 
commanded  the  whole  fleet,  was  almost  in  despair.  How 
was  it  possible  that  a  man  could  navigate  a  ship,  with 
only  one  quarter  point  of  the  compass  in  his  head  ? 

Sir  Theophilus  scratched  his  wig ;  and  the  disposition 
of  the  Mediterranean  fleet,  so  important  to  the  country, 
was  altered  according  to  the  dispositions  of  the  captains 
who  commanded  the  ships.  In  those  days,  there  were 
martinets  in  the  service  ;  oflicers  who  never  overlooked 
an  offence,  or  permitted  the  least  deviation  from  strict 
duty  ;  who  were  generally  hated,  but  at  the  same  time 
were  most  valuable  to  the  service.  As  for  his  nephew 
passing  his  examination  before  any  of  those  of  the  first, 
or  second,  or  even  of  the  third  degree,  the  Admiral  knew 
that  it  was  impossible.  The  consequence  was,  that  one 
was  sent  away  on  a  mission  to  Genoa,  about  nothing ; 
another  to  watch  for  vessels  never  expected,  off  Sardinia ; 
two  more  to  cruise  after  a  French  frigate  which  had  never 
been  built :  and  thus,  by  degrees,  did  the  Admiral  arrange. 


S.W.  and  by  W.  |  W.  237 

so  as  to  obtain  a  set  of  officers  sufficiently  pliant  to  allow 
his  nephew  to  creep  under  the  gate  which  barred  his 
promotion,  and  which  he  never  could  have  vaulted  over. 
So  the  signal  was  made — our  hero  went  on  board — his 
uncle  had  not  forgotten  the  propriety  of  a  little  douceur 
on  the  occasion  ;  and,  as  the  turkeys  were  all  gone,  three 
couple  of  geese  were  sent  in  the  same  boat,  as  a  present 
to  each  of  the  three  passing  captains.  Littlebrain's  heart 
failed  him  as  he  pulled  to  the  ship  j  even  the  geese 
hissed  at  him,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  If  you  were  not  such 
a  stupid  ass,  we  might  have  been  left  alive  in  our  coops.'* 
There  was  a  great  deal  of  truth  in  that  remark,  if  they 
did  say  so. 

Nothing  could  have  been  made  more  easy  for  Littlebrain 
than  his  examination.  The  questions  had  all  been  arranged 
beforehand  ;  and  some  kind  friend  had  given  him  all  the 
answers  written  down.  The  passing  captains  apparently 
suffered  from  the  heat  of  the  weather,  and  each  had  his 
hand  on  his  brow,  looking  down  on  the  table  at  the  time 
that  Littlebrain  gave  his  answers,  so  that  of  course  they 
did  not  observe  that  he  was  reading  them  off.  As  soon 
as  Littlebrain  had  given  his  answer,  and  had  had  sufficient 
time  to  drop  his  paper  under  the  table,  the  captains  felt 
better  and  looked  up  again. 

There  were  but  eight  questions  for  our  hero  to 
answer.  Seven  had  been  satisfactorily  got  through  ;  then 
came  the  eighth,  a  very  simple  one: — "What  is  your 
course  and  distance  from  Ushant  to  the  Start  ? "  This 
question  having  been  duly  put,  the  captains  were  again 
in  deep  meditation,  shrouding  their  eyes  with  the  palms 
of  their  hands. 

Littlebrain  had  his  answer — he  looked  at  the  paper. 
What  could  be  more  simple  than  to  reply  ? — and  then  the 
captains  would  have  all  risen  up,  shaken  him  by  the  hand, 
complimented  him  upon  the  talent  he  had  displayed,  sent 
their  compliments  to  the  commander-in-chief,  and  their 
thanks  for  the  geese.     Jack  was  just  answering,  "North 


238  Olla  Podrida 

"  Recollect  your  promise  !  "  cried  a  soft  voice,  which 
Jack  well  recollected. 

Jack  stammered — the  captains  were  mute — and  waited 
patiently. 

**  I  must  say  it,"  muttered  Jack. 

"  You  shan't,"  replied  the  little  Wind. 

"  Indeed  I  must,"  said  Jack,  "  or  I  shall  be  turned 
back." 

The  captains,  surprised  at  this  delay  and  the  muttering 
of  Jack,  looked  up,  and  one  of  them  gently  inquired  if  Mr 
Littlebrain  had  not  dropped  his  handkerchief  or  something 
under  the  table  ?  and  then  they  again  fixed  their  eyes 
upon  the  green  cloth. 

"  If  you  dare,  I'll  never  see  you  again,"  cried  **  S.W.  and 
by  W.  I  W.," — "  never  come  to  your  hammock, — but  I'll 
blow  the  ship  on  shore,  every  soul  shall  be  lost,  Admiral 
and  all ;  recollect  your  promise  !  " 

"  Then  I  shall  never  pass,"  replied  Jack. 

**  Do  you  think  that  any  other  point  in  the  compass  shall 
pass  you  except  me  ? — never  !  I'm  too  jealous  for  that ; 
come  now,  dearest,"  and  the  Wind  again  deliciously 
trembled  upon  the  lips  of  our  hero,  who  could  no  longer 
resist. 

"S.W.  and  by  W.  f  W.,"  exclaimed  Jack  firmly. 

**  You  have  made  a  slight  mistake,  Mr  Littlebrain,"  said 
one  of  the  captains.  **  Look  again — I  meant  to  say,  think 
again." 

"  S.W.  and  by  W.  |  W.,**  again  repeated  Jack. 

"  Dearest  !  how  I  love  you  !  "  whispered  the  soft 
Wind. 

**  Why,  Mr  Littlebrain,"  said  one  of  the  captains,  for 
Jack  had  actually  laid  the  paper  down  on  the  table,  "  what's 
in  the  wind  now  ^  " 

**  She's  obstinate,"  replied  Jack. 

"  You  appear  to  be  so,  at  all  events,"  replied  the  captain. 
**  Pray  try  once  more." 

"  I  have  it  !  "  thought  Jack,  who  tore  off  the  last  answer 
from  his  paper.     "  I  gained  five  guineas  by  that  plan  once 


S.W.  and  by  W.  |  W.  239 

before."  He  then  handed  the  bit  of  paper  to  the  passing 
captain :  "  I  believe  that's  right,  sir,"  said  our  hero. 

"  Yes,  that  is  right ;  but  could  you  not  have  said  it 
instead  of  writing  it,  Mr  Littlebrain  ?  " 

Jack  made  no  reply  5  his  little  sweetheart  pouted  a  little, 
but  said  nothing ;  it  was  an  evasion  which  she  did  not  like. 
A  few  seconds  of  consultation  then  took  place,  as  a  matter 
of  form.  Each  captain  asked  of  the  other  if  he  was  per- 
fectly satisfied  as  to  Mr  Littlebrain's  capabilities,  and  the 
reply  was  in  the  affirmative ;  and  they  were  perfectly 
satisfied,  that  he  was  either  a  fool  or  a  madman.  However, 
as  we  have  had  both  in  the  service  by  way  of  precedent. 
Jack  was  added  to  the  list,  and  the  next  day  was  appointed 
lieutenant. 

Our  hero  did  his  duty  as  lieutenant  of  the  forecastle  ; 
and  as  all  the  duty  of  that  officer  is,  when  hailed  from  the 
quarter-deck,  to  answer  "^j',  ay^  sir"  he  got  on  without 
making  many  mistakes.  And  now  he  was  very  happy  ;  no 
one  dared  to  call  him  a  fool  except  his  uncle  ;  he  had  his 
own  cabin,  and  many  was  the  time  that  his  dear  little 
"  S.W.  and  by  W.  |  W."  would  come  in  by  the  scuttle, 
and  nestle  by  his  side. 

"  You  wo'n't  see  so  much  of  me  soon,  dearest,"  said  she, 
one  morning,  gravely. 

"  Why  not,  my  soft  one  ?  "  replied  Jack. 

"  Don't  you  recollect  that  the  winter  months  are  coming 
on  ? " 

**So  they  are,"  replied  Jack.  "Well,  I  shall  long  for 
you  back." 

And  Jack  did  long,  and  long  very  much,  for  he  loved 
his  dear  wind,  and  the  fine  weather  which  accompanied  her. 
Winter  came  on,  and  heavy  gales  and  rain,  and  thunder 
and  lightning ;  nothing  but  double-reefed  topsails,  and 
wearing  in  succession  ;  and  our  hero  walked  the  forecastle, 
and  thought  of  his  favourite  wind.  The  N.E.  winds  came 
down  furiously,  and  the  weather  was  bitter  cold.  The 
officers  shook  the  rain  and  spray  off  their  garments  when 
their  watch  was  over,  and  called  for  grog. 


240  OUa  Podrida 

"  Steward,  a  glass  of  grog,"  cried  one,  "  and  let  it  be 
strong." 

"  The  same  for  me,"  said  Jack ,  "  only  I'll  mix  it 
myself." 

Jack  poured  out  the  rum  till  the  tumbler  was  half  full. 

"  Why,  Littlebrain,"  said  his  messmate,  "  that  is  a  dose, 
that's  what  we  call  a  regular  Nor-ivester,^^ 

"Is  it  ?  "  replied  Jack.  **  Well  then,  Nor-westers  suit 
me  exactly,  and  I  shall  stick  to  them  like  cobbler's  wax." 

And  during  the  whole  of  the  winter  months  our  hero 
showed  a  great  predilection  for  Nor-westers. 

It  was  in  the  latter  end  of  February  that  there  was  a 
heavy  gale ;  it  had  blown  furiously  from  the  northward 
for  three  days,  and  then  it  paused  and  panted  as  if  out  of 
breath — no  wonder ;  and  then  the  wind  shifted,  and 
shifted  again,  with  squalls  and  heavy  rain,  until  it  blew 
from  every  quarter  of  the  compass. 

Our  hero's  watch  was  over,  and  he  came  down  and 
called  for  a  **  Nor-wester  "  as  usual. 

**  How  is  the  wind,  now  ?  "  asked  the  first  lieutenant  to 
the  master,  who  came  down  dripping  wet. 

"  S.S.W.,  but  drawing  now  fast  to  the  Westward," 
said  old  Spunyarn. 

And  so  it  was  ;  and  it  veered  round  until  "  S.W.  and 
by  W.  f  W.,"  with  an  angry  gust,  came  down  the  sky- 
light, and  blowing  strongly  into  our  hero's  ear,  cried — 

"  Oh  !  you  false  one  ! !  " 

"  False  !  "  exclaimed  Jack.  **  What !  you  here,  and  so 
angry  too  ? — what's  the  matter  ? " 

"  What's  the  matter ! — do  you  think  I  don't  know  ? 
What  have  you  been  doing  ever  since  I  was  away, 
comforting  yourself  during  my  absence  with  Nor- 
nvesters  ?  " 

**  Why,  you  an't  jealous  of  a  Nor-wester,  are  you  ? " 
replied  Littlebrain.  "  I  confess,  I'm  rather  partial  to 
them." 

"  What ! — this  to  my  face  ! — I'll  never  come  again, — 
without  you  promise  me  that  you  will  have  nothing  to  do 


S.VnT.  and  by  W.   f  W.  241 

with  them,  and  never  call  for  one  again.  Be  quick — I 
cannot  stay  more  than  two  minutes,  for  it  is  hard  work 
now,  and  we  relieve  quick — say  the  word." 

"Well,  then,"  repHed  Littlebrain,  "  you've  no  objection 
to  half-and'halp  " 

"  None  in  the  world  ;  that's  quite  another  thing,  and 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  wind." 

'*  It  has,  though,"  thought  Jack,  "  for  it  gets  a  man  in 
the  wind  j  but  I  wo'n't  tell  her  so ;  and,"  continued  he, 
"  you  don't  mind  a  raw  nip,  do  you  ? " 

**  No — I  care  for  nothing  except  a  Nor- wester." 

"  I'll  never  call  for  one  again,"  replied  Jack ;  "  it  is  but 
making  my  grog  a  little  stronger  j  in  future  it  shall  be 
half-and-halfr 

"That's  a  dear! — now  I'm  off,  don't  forget  me;"  and 
away  went  the  wind  in  a  great  hurry. 

It  was  about  three  months  after  this  short  visit,  the 
fleet  being  off  Corsica,  that  our  hero  was  walking  the 
deck,  thinking  that  he  soon  should  see  the  object  of  his 
affections,  when  a  privateer  brig  was  discovered  at  anchor 
a  few  miles  from  Bastia.  The  signal  was  made  for  the 
boats  of  the  fleet  to  cut  her  out,  and  the  Admiral,  wishing 
that  his  nephew  should  distinguish  himself  somehow,  gave 
him  the  command  of  one  of  the  finest  boats.  Now  Jack 
was  as  brave  as  brave  could  be  ;  he  did  not  know  what 
danger  was ;  he  hadn't  wit  enough  to  perceive  it,  and 
there  was  no  doubt  but  he  would  distinguish  himself. 
The  boats  went  on  the  service.  Jack  was  the  very  first 
on  board,  cheering  his  men  as  he  darted  into  the  closed 
ranks  of  his  opponents.  Whether  it  was  that  he  did  not 
think  that  his  head  was  worth  defending,  or  that  he 
was  too  busy  in  breaking  the  heads  of  others  to  look  after 
his  own ;  this  is  certain,  that  a  tomahawk  descended  upon 
it  with  such  force  as  to  bury  itself  in  his  skull  (and  his 
was  a  thick  skull,  too).  The  privateer's  men  were  over- 
powered by  numbers,  and  then  our  hero  was  discovered, 
under  a  pile  of  bodies,  still  breathing  heavily.  He  was 
hoisted  on  board,  and    taken   into  his   uncle's  cabin :  the 


242  Ollci  Podrida 

surgeon  shook  his  head  when  he  had  examined  that  of 
our  hero. 

**It  must  have  been  a  most  tremendous  blow,"  said  he 
to  the  Admiral,  "  to  have  penetrated '* 

"  It  must  have  been,  indeed,"  replied  the  Admiral,  as 
the  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks ;  for  he  loved  his 
nephew. 

The  surgeon  having  done  all  that  his  art  would  enable 
him,  left  the  cabin  to  attend  to  the  others  who  were  hurt ; 
the  Admiral  also  went  on  the  quarter-deck,  walking  to 
and  fro  for  an  hour  in  a  melancholy  mood.  He  returned 
to  the  cabin,  and  bent  over  his  nephew  j  Jack  opened 
his  eyes. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  the  Admiral,  "  how's  your 
head  now  ? " 

*'  S.W.  and  by  W.  f  ^.,"  faintly  exclaimed  our  hero, 
constant  in  death,  as  he  turned  a  little  on  one  side  and 
expired. 

It  was  three  days  afterwards,  as  the  fleet  were  on  a 
wind,  making  for  Malta,  that  the  bell  of  the  ship  tolled, 
and  a  body,  sewed  up  in  a  hammock  and  covered  with  the 
Union  Jack,  was  carried  to  the  gangway  by  the  Admiral's 
bargemen.  It  had  been  a  dull  cloudy  day,  with  little 
wind  ;  the  hands  were  turned  up,  the  officers  and  men 
stood  uncovered  \  the  Admiral  in  advance  with  his  arms 
folded,  as  the  chaplain  read  the  funeral  service  over  the 
body  of  our  hero, — and  as  the  service  proceeded,  the 
sails  flapped,  for  the  wind  had  shifted  a  little ;  a  motion 
was  made,  by  the  hand  of  the  officer  of  the  watch,  to  the 
man  at  the  helm  to  let  the  ship  go  off  the  wind,  that  the 
service  might  not  be  disturbed,  and  a  mizzling  soft  rain 
descended.  The  wind  had  shifted  to  our  hero's  much 
loved  pointy  his  fond  mistress  had  come  to  mourn  over 
the  loss  of  her  dearest,  and  the  rain  that  descended  were 
the  tears  which  she  shed  at  the  death  of  her  handsome  but 
not  over-gifted  lover. 


The  Sky-blue  Domino 

It  was  a  fine  autumnal  evening  ;  I  had  been  walking  with 
a  friend  until  dusk  on  the  Piazza  Grande,  or  principal 
square  in  the  town  of  Lucca.  We  had  been  conversing 
of  England,  our  own  country,  from  which  I  had  then 
banished  myself  for  nearly  four  years,  having  taken  up  my 
residence  in  Italy  to  fortify  a  weak  constitution,  and 
having  remained  there  long  after  it  was  requisite  for  my 
health  from  an  attachment  to  its  pure  sky,  and  the  dolcefar 
tiiente  which  so  wins  upon  you  in  that  luxurious  climate. 
We  had  communicated  to  each  other  the  contents  of  our 
respective  letters  arrived  by  the  last  mail ;  had  talked  over 
politics,  great  men,  acquaintances,  friends,  and  kindred  j 
and,  tired  of  conversation,  had  both  sank  into  a  pleasing 
reverie  as  we  watched  the  stars  twinkling  above  us,  when 
my  friend  rose  hastily  and  bid  me  good-night. 

**  Where  are  you  going,  Alfred  ?  "  inquired  I. 

"I  had  nearly  forgetten  I  had  an  appointment  this 
evening.  I  promised  to  meet  somebody  at  the  Marquesa 
di  Cesto's  masquerade." 

"  Pshaw  !  are  you  not  tired  of  these  things  ?  "  replied  I ; 
**that  eternal  round  of  black  masks  and  dominos  of  all 
colours ;  heavy  harlequins,  fools  and  clowns  by  nature 
wearing  their  proper  dresses  there,  and  only  in  masquerade 
when  out  of  it ;  nuns  who  have  no  holiness  in  their  ideas, 
friars  without  a  spice  of  religion,  ugly  Venuses,  Dianas 
without  chastity,  and  Hebes  as  old  as  your  grandmother." 

"  All  very  true,  Herbert,  and  life  itself  is  masquerade 
enough ;  but  the  fact  is,  that  I  have  made  an  appointment : 
it  is  of  importance,  and  I  must  not  fail." 

'*Well,    I   wish   you   more   amusement    than    I    have 


244  Olla  Podrida 

generally  extracted  from  these  burlesque  meetings,"  replied 
I.  "  Adieu,  and  may  you  be  successful !  "  And  Albert 
hastened  away. 

I  remained  another  half  hour  reclining  on  the  bench,  and 
then  returned  to  my  lodgings.  My  servant  Antonio  lighted 
the  candle  and  withdrew.  On  the  table  lay  a  note  5  it  was 
an  invitation  from  the  Marquesa.  I  threw  it  on  one  side 
and  took  up  a  book,  one  that  required  reflection  and  deep 
examination  ;  but  the  rattling  of  the  wheels  of  the  carriages 
as  they  whirled  along  past  my  window  would  not  permit 
me  to  command  my  attention.  I  threw  down  the  book ; 
and  taking  a  chair  at  the  window,  watched  the  carriages 
full  of  masks  as  they  rolled  past,  apparently  so  eager  in 
the  pursuit  of  pleasure.  I  was  in  a  cynical  humour. 
What  fools,  thought  I,  and  yet  what  numbers  will  be 
there  ;  there  will  be  an  immense  crowd  ;  and  what  can 
be  the  assignation  which  Albert  said  was  of ,  such  con- 
sequence ?  Such  was  my  reflection  for  the  next  ten 
minutes,  during  which  at  least  fifty  carriages  and  other 
vehicles  had  passed  in  review  before  me. 

And  then  I  thought  of  the  princely  fortune  of  the 
Marquesa,  the  splendid  palazzo  at  which  the  masquerade 
was  given,  and  the  brilliant  scene  which  would  take 
place. 

"  The  Grand  Duke  is  to  be  there,  and  everybody 
of  distinction  in  Lucca.     I  have  a  great  mind  to  go  myself." 

A  few  minutes  more  elapsed.  I  felt  that  I  was  lonely, 
and  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  would  go.  I  turned  from 
the  window  and  rang  the  bell. 

"  Antonio,  see  if  you  can  procure  me  a  domino,  a 
dark-coloured  one  if  possible  ;  and  tell  Carlo  to  bring  the 
carriage  round  as  soon  as  he  can." 

Antonio  departed,  and  was  away  so  long  that  the 
carriage  was  at  the  door  previous  to  his  return. 

"Signor,  I  am  sorry,  very,  very  sorry;  but  I  have  run 
to  every  shop  in  Lucca,  and  there  is  nothing  left  but  a  sky- 
blue  domino,  which  I  have  brought  with  me." 

** Sky-blue!    why,    there    will    not   be   two    sky-blue 


The  Sky-blue  Domino  245 

dominos  in  the  whole  masquerade  j  I  might  as  well  tell 
my  name  at  once,  I  shall  be  so  conspicuous." 

"  You  are  as  well  hidden  under  a  sky-blue  domino  as  a 
black  one,  Signor,  if  you  choose  to  keep  your  own  secrets," 
observed  Antonio. 

"  Very  true,"  replied  I ;  "  give  me  my  mask." 

Enshrouding  myself  in  the  sky-blue  domino,  I  went 
down  the  stairs,  threw  myself  into  the  carriage,  and 
directed  Carlo  to  drive  to  the  Palazzo  of  the  Marquesa. 

In  half  an  hour  we  arrived  at  the  entrance  gates  of  the 
Marquesa's  superb  country  seat.  From  these  gates  to  the 
palazzo,  a  sweep  of  several  hundred  yards,  the  avenue 
through  which  the  driver  passed  was  loaded  with  varie- 
gated lamps,  hanging  in  graceful  festoons  from  branch  to 
branch  ;  and  the  notes  of  music  from  the  vast  entrance-hall 
of  the  palazzo  floated  through  the  still  air.  When  I 
arrived  at  the  area  in  front  of  the  flight  of  marble  steps 
which  formed  the  entrance  of  the  palazzo,  I  was  astonished 
at  the  magnificence,  the  good  taste,  and  the  total  disregard 
of  expense  which  were  exhibited.  The  palazzo  itself 
appeared  like  the  fabric  built  of  diamonds  and  precious 
stones  by  the  genii  who  obeyed  the  ring  and  lamp  of 
Aladdin,  so  completely  was  its  marble  front  hidden  with 
a  mass  of  many-coloured  lamps,  the  reflection  from  whose 
galaxy  of  light  rendered  it  bright  as  day  for  nearly  one 
hundred  yards  around ;  various  mottoes  and  transparencies 
were  arranged  in  the  walks  nearest  to  the  palazzo ;  and 
then  all  was  dark,  rendered  still  darker  from  the  contrast 
with  the  flood  of  light  which  poured  to  a  certain  distance 
from  the  scene  of  festivity.  Groups  of  characters  and 
dominos  were  walking  to  and  fro  in  every  direction ;  most 
of  them  retracing  their  steps  when  they  arrived  at  the 
sombre  walks  and  alleys,  some  few  pairs  only  continuing 
their  route  where  no  listeners  were  to  be  expected. 

This  is  an  animating  scene,  thought  I,  as  the  carriage 
stopped,  and  I  am  not  sorry  that  I  have  made  one  of  the 
party.  As  soon  as  I  had  descended,  I  walked  up  the 
flight  of  marble  steps  which  led  to  the  spacious  hall  in 


246  Olla  Podrida 

which  the  major  part  of  the  company  were  collected.  The 
music  had,  for  a  moment,  ceased  to  play  ;  and  finding  that 
the  perfume  of  the  exotics  which  decorated  the  hall  was 
too  powerful,  I  was  again  descending  the  steps,  when  my 
hand  was  seized  and  warmly  pressed  by  one  in  a  violet- 
coloured  domino. 

"I  am  so  glad  that  you  are  come;  we  were  afraid  that 
you  would  not.  I  will  see  you  again  directly,"  said  the 
domino;  and  it  then  fell  back  into  the  crowd  and  dis- 
appeared. 

It  immediately  occurred  to  me  that  it  was  my  friend 
Albert  who  spoke  to  me.  "  Very  odd,"  thought  I,  "  that 
he  should  have  found  me  out !  "  And  again  I  fell  into  the 
absurdity  of  imagining  that  because  I  had  put  on  a  con- 
spicuous domino,  I  was  sure  to  be  recognised.  "What 
can  he  want  with  me  ?  He  must  be  in  some  difficulty, 
some  unexpected  one,  that  is  certain."  Such  were  my 
reflections  as  I  slowly  descended  the  steps,  occasionally 
pausing  for  a  moment  on  one,  as  I  was  lost  in  conjecture, 
when  I  was  again  arrested  by  a  slight  slap  on  the  shoulder. 
I  looked  around :  it  was  a  female ;  and  although  she  wore 
her  half-mask,  it  was  evident  that  she  was  young,  and  I 
felt  convinced  that  she  was  beautiful. 

"  Not  a  word,"  whispered  she,  putting  her  finger  to  her 
lip ;  "  follow  me."  Of  course  I  followed :  who  could 
resist  such  a  challenge  ? 

"  You  are  late,"  said  the  incognito,  when  we  had  walked 
so  far  away  from  the  palazzo  as  to  be  out  of  hearing  of  the 
crowd. 

"I  did  not  make  up  my  mind  to  come  until  an  hour  ago," 
replied  I. 

**  I  was  so  afraid  that  you  would  not  come.  Albert  was 
sure  that  you  would.  He  was  right.  He  told  me  just  now 
that  he  had  spoken  to  you." 

"  What !  was  that  Albert  in  the  rose-coloured 
domino?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  dare  not  stay  now, — my  father  will  be 
looking  for  me.     Albert  is  keeping  him  in  conversation. 


The  Sky-blue  Domino  247 

In  half  an  hour  he  will  speak  to  you  again.  Has  he 
explained  to  you  what  has  occurred  ?  " 

**  Not  one  word." 

*'  If  he  has  not  had  time — and  I  doubt  if  he  will  have, 
as  he  must  attend  to  the  preparations — I  will  write  a  few 
lines,  if  I  can,  and  explain,  or  at  least  tell  you  what  to  do ; 
but  I  am  so  harassed,  so  frightened  !  "We  do  indeed  require 
your  assistance.  Adieu ! "  So  saying  the  fair  unknown 
tripped  hastily  away. 

"  "What  the  deuce  is  all  this  ? "  muttered  I,  as  I  watched 
her  retreating  figure.  "  Albert  said  that  he  had  an  appoint- 
ment, but  he  did  not  make  me  his  confidant.  It  appears 
that  something  which  has  occurred  this  night  occasions  him 
to  require  my  assistance.     "Well,  I  will  not  fail  him." 

For  about  half  an  hour  I  sauntered  up  and  down  between 
the  lines  of  orange-trees  which  were  dressed  up  with  varie- 
gated lamps,  and  shed  their  powerful  fragrance  in  the  air : 
I  ruminated  upon  what  might  be  my  friend's  intentions,  and 
what  might  be  the  result  of  an  intrigue  carried  on  in  a 
country  where  the  stiletto  follows  Love  so  close  through 
all  the  mazes  of  his  labyrinth,  when  I  was  again  accosted 
by  the  violet-coloured  domino. 

"  Hist !  "  whispered  he,  looking  carefully  round  as  he 
thrust  a  paper  into  my  hand  ;  "  read  this  after  I  leave  you. 
In  one  hour  from  this  be  you  on  this  spot.  Are  you 
armed  ? " 

"  No,"  replied  I ;  "  but  Albert " 

"  You  may  not  need  it  j  but  nevertheless  take  this, — I 
cannot  wait."  So  saying  he  put  a  stiletto  into  my  hand, 
and  again  made  a  hasty  retreat. 

It  had  been  my  intention  to  have  asked  Albert  what  was 
his  plan,  and  further  why  he  did  not  speak  English  instead 
of  Itahan,  as  he  would  have  been  less  liable  to  be  under- 
stood if  overheard  by  eavesdroppers  ;  but  a  little  reflection 
told  me  that  he  was  right  in  speaking  Italian,  as  the  English 
language  overheard  would  have  betrayed  him,  or  at  least 
have  identified  him  as  a  foreigner. 

**  A    very  mysterious  affair  this  !  "  thought   I ;    "  but, 


248  Olla  Podrida 

however,  this  paper  "will,  I  presume,  explain  the  business. 
That  there  is  a  danger  in  it  is  evident,  or  he  would  not 
have  given  me  this  weapon , "  and  I  turned  the  stiletto  once 
or  twice  to  the  light  of  the  lamp  next  to  me,  examining  its 
blade,  when,  looking  up,  I  perceived  a  black  domino  stand- 
ing before  me. 

"It  is  sharp  enough,  I  warrant,"  said  the  domino  ;  "  you 
have  but  to  strike  home.  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  in 
the  next  walk,  which  I  thought  was  to  be  our  rendezvous. 
Here  is  a  paper  which  you  will  fasten  to  his  dress.  I  will 
contrive  that  he  shall  be  here  in  an  hour  hence  by  a  pre- 
tended message.  After  his  death  you  will  put  this  packet 
into  his  bosom  ; — you  understand.  Fail  not :  remember  the 
one  thousand  sequins  j  and  here  is  my  ring,  which  I  will 
redeem  as  soon  as  your  work  is  done.  The  others  will 
soon  be  here.  The  pass-word  is  *  Milano.'  But  I  must 
not  be  seen  here.  Why  a  sky-blue  domino  ?  it  is  too  con- 
spicuous for  escape ; "  and  as  I  received  from  him  the 
packet  and  ring,  the  black  domino  retreated  through  the 
orange  grove  which  encircled  us. 

I  was  lost  in  amazement :  there  I  stood  with  my  hands 
full — two  papers,  a  packet,  a  stiletto,  and  a  diamond  ring ! 
"  Well,"  thought  I,  "  this  time  I  am  most  assuredly  taken 
for  somebody  else — for  a  bravo  I  am  not.  There  is  some 
foul  work  going  on,  which,  perhaps,  I  may  prevent." 
"  But  why  a  sky-blue  domino  ? "  said  he.  I  may  well  ask 
the  same  question.  "  Why  the  deuce  did  I  come  here  in 
a  sky-blue  domino,  or  any  domino  at  all  ? "  I  put  the  ring 
on  my  finger,  the  stiletto  and  packet  in  my  bosom,  and 
then  hastened  away  to  the  garden  on  the  other  side  of  the 
palazzo,  that  I  might  read  the  mysterious  communication 
put  into  my  hands  by  my  friend  Albert ;  and  as  I  walked 
on,  my  love  for  admiration  led  me  away  so  as  to  find 
myself  pleased  with  the  mystery  and  danger  attending 
upon  the  affair ;  and  feeling  secure,  now  that  I  had  a 
stiletto  in  my  bosom  for  my  defence,  I  resolved  that  I 
would  go  right  through  it  until  the  whole  affair  should  be 
unravelled. 


The  Sky-blue  Domino  249 

I  walked  on  till  I  had  gained  the  last  lamp  on  the  other 
side  of  the  palazzo.  I  held  up  to  its  light  the  mysterious 
paper :  it  was  in  Italian,  and  in  a  woman's  handwriting. 

**  We  have  determined  upon  flight,  as  we  cannot  hope 
for  safety  here,  surrounded  as  we  are  by  stilettoes  on 
every  side.  We  feel  sure  of  pardon  as  soon  as  the  papers 
which  Albert  received  by  this  day's  mail,  and  which  he 
will  entrust  to  you  when  you  meet  again,  are  placed  in  my 
father's  hands.  We  must  have  your  assistance  in  removing 
our  treasure.  Our  horses  are  all  ready,  and  a  few  hours 
will  put  us  in  safety;  but  we  must  look  to  you  for 
following  us  in  your  carriage,  and  conveying  for  me  what 
would  prove  so  great  an  incumbrance  to  our  necessary 
speed.  When  Albert  sees  you  again,  he  will  be  able  to 
tell  you  where  it  is  deposited.  Follow  us  quick,  and  you 
will  always  have  the  gratitude  of  "  Viola. 

**  P.S.  I  write  in  great  haste,  as  I  cannot  leave  my 
father's  side  for  a  moment  without  his  seeking  for  me." 

**  What  can  all  this  mean  ?  Albert  told  me  of  no  papers 
by  this  day's  mail.  Viola !  I  never  heard  him  mention 
such  a  name.  He  said  to  me,  *  Read  this,  and  all  will  be 
explained.'  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  am  not  as  much  in  the  dark 
as  ever  ! — Follow  them  in  my  carriage  with  the  treasure — 
never  says  where  !  I  presume  he  is  about  to  run  off  with 
some  rich  heiress.  Confound  this  sky-blue  domino  !  Here 
I  am  with  two  papers,  a  packet,  a  stiletto,  and  a  ring  j  I 
am  to  receive  another  packet,  and  am  to  convey  treasure. 
Well,  it  must  solve  itself — I  will  back  to  my  post ;  but 
first  let  me  see  what  is  in  this  paper  which  I  am  to  affix 
upon  the  man's  dress  after  I  have  killed  him."  I  held  it 
up  to  the  light,  and  read,  in  capital  letters,  "  The  reward  of 
a  traitor  /  "  "  Short  and  pithy,"  muttered  I,  as  I  replaced 
it  in  my  pocket :  "  now  I'll  back  to  the  spot  of  assignation, 
for  the  hour  must  be  nearly  expired." 

As  I  retraced  my  steps,  I  again  reverted  to  the  com- 


250  Olla  Podrida 

munication  of  Viola — **  *  Surrounded  as  we  are  by  stilettoes 
on  every  side  ! '  Why,  surely  Albert  cannot  be  the  person 
that  I  am  required  by  the  black  domino  to  despatch ;  and 
yet  it  may  be  so — and  others  are  to  join  me  here  before 
the  hour  is  passed."  A  thought  struck  me  :  whoever  the 
party  might  be  whose  life  was  to  be  taken,  whether 
Albert  or  another,  I  could  save  him. 

My  reverie  was  again  broken  by  a  tap  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Am  I  right  ?     What  is  the  pass-word  ?  *' 

*'  Milano  !  "  replied  I,  in  a  whisper. 

**  All's  right,  then — Giacomo  and  Tomaso  are  close  by — ■ 
I  will  fetch  them." 

The  man  turned  away,  and  in  a  minute  re-appeared  with 
two  others,  bending  as  they  forced  their  way  under  the 
orange-trees." 

"  Here  we  all  are,  Felippo,"  whispered  the  first.  ^^  He 
is  to  be  here  in  a  few  minutes." 

"  Hush !  "  replied  I,  in  a  whisper,  and  holding  up  to 
them  the  brilliant  ring  which  sparkled  on  my  finger. 

"  Ah,  Signor,  I  cry  your  mercy,"  replied  the  man,  in  a 
low  voice  j  "  I  thought  it  was  Felippo." 

"  Not  so  loud,"  replied  I,  still  in  a  whisper.  "  All  is 
discovered,  and  Felippo  is  arrested.  You  must  away  im- 
mediately.    You  shall  hear  from  me  to-morrow." 

"  Corpo  di  Bacco  !     Where,  Signor  ?  at  the  old  place  ?  " 

**  Yes — now  away,  and  save  yourselves." 

In  a  few  seconds  the  desperate  men  disappeared  among 
the  trees,  and  I  was  left  alone. 

**  Slaves  of  the  Ring,  you  have  done  my  bidding  at  all 
events,  this  time,"  thought  I,  and  I  looked  at  the  ring 
more  attentively.  It  was  a  splendid  solitaire  diamond, 
worth  many  hundred  crowns.  "  Will  you  ever  find  your 
way  back  to  your  lawful  owner  ?  "  was  the  question  in  my 
mind  when  Albert  made  his  appearance  in  his  violet- 
coloured  domino. 

"  'Twas  imprudent  of  you  to  send  me  the  paper  by  the 
black  domino,"  said  he,  hastily.     "  Did  I  not  tell  you  that 


The  Sky-blue  Domino  251 

I  would  be  here  in  an  hour  ?  We  have  not  a  moment  to 
spare.     Follow  me  quickly,  and  be  silent." 

I  followed — the  paper  which  Albert  referred  to  needed 
no  explanation  j  it  was,  indeed,  the  only  part  of  the  whole 
affair  which  I  comprehended.  He  led  the  way  to  about 
three  hundred  yards  of  the  path  through  the  wood. 

"There,"  said  he,  "in  that  narrow  avenue,  you  will 
find  my  faithful  negro  with  his  charge.  He  will  not 
deliver  it  up  without  you  show  him  this  ring."  And 
Albert  put  a  ring  upon  my  finger. 

"But,  Albert," — my  mind  misgave  me — Albert  never 
had  a  faithful  negro  to  my  knowledge ;  it  must  be  some 
other  person  who  had  mistaken  me  for  his  friend, — "  I 
am  afraid," — continued  I 

"Afraid! — let  me  not  hear  you  say  that.  You  never 
yet  knew  fear,"  said  he,  interrupting  me.  "What  have 
you  to  fear  between  this  and  Pisa  ?  Your  own  horses 
will  take  you  there  in  three  hours.  But  here's  the  packet, 
which  you  must  deliver  yourself.  Now  that  you  know 
where  the  negro  is,  return  to  the  palazzo,  deliver  it  into 
his  own  hands,  requesting  his  immediate  perusal.  After 
that  do  not  wait  a  moment,  but  hasten  here  to  your  charge. 
While  the  Grand  Duke  is  reading  it  I  will  escape  with 
Viola." 

"  I  really  cannot  understand  all  this,"  said  I,  taking  the 
packet. 

"  All  will  be  explained  when  we  meet  at  Pisa.  Away, 
now,  to  the  Grand  Duke — I  will  go  to  the  negro  and 
prepare  him  for  your  coming." 

"  But  allow  me " 

"  Not  a  word  more  if  you  love  me,"  replied  the  violet- 
coloured  domino,  who,  I  was  now  convinced,  was  not 
Albert ;  it  was  not  his  voice — there  was  a  mystery  and  a 
mistake ;  but  I  had  become  so  implicated  that  I  felt  I 
could  not  retreat  without  sacrificing  the  parties,  whoever 
they  might  be. 

"Well,"  said  I,  as  I  turned  back  to  the  palazzo,  "I 
must  go  on  now  5  for,  as  a  gentleman  and  man  of  honour, 


252  Olla  Podrida 

I  cannot  refuse.  I  will  give  the  packet  to  the  Grand 
Duke,  and  I  will  also  convey  his  treasure  to  Pisa.  Con- 
found this  sky-blue  domino  !  " 

As  I  returned  to  the  palazzo,  I  was  accosted  by  the 
black  domino. 

"  Milano  !  "  replied  I. 

"  Is  all  right,  Felippo  ? "  said  he,  in  a  whisper. 

"  All  is  right,  Signor,"  was  my  answer. 

"Where  is  he?" 

T  pointed  with  my  finger  to  a  clump  of  orange-trees. 

"  And  the  paper  and  packet  ? " 

I  nodded  my  head. 

"  Then  you  had  better  away — I  will  see  you  to-morrow." 

"  At  the  old  place,  Signor  ? " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  black  domino,  cutting  into  a  cross- 
path,  and  disappearing. 

I  arrived  at  the  palazzo,  mounted  the  steps,  forced  my 
way  through  the  crowd,  and  perceived  the  Grand  Duke 
in  an  inner  saloon,  the  lady  who  had  accosted  me  leaning 
on  his  arm.  It  then  occurred  to  me  that  the  Grand  Duke 
had  an  only  daughter,  whose  name  was  Viola.  I  entered 
the  saloon,  which  was  not  crowded,  and  walking  boldly 
up  to  the  Grand  Duke,  presented  the  packet,  requesting 
that  his  Highness  would  give  it  his  immediate  attention. 
I  then  bowed,  and  hastened  away,  once  more  passed 
through  the  thronged  hall,  and  gained  the  marble  steps 
of  the  palazzo. 

"  Have  you  given  it  ?  "  said  a  low  voice  close  to  me. 

**I  have,"  replied  I ;  "  but,  Signor " 

"  Not  a  word.  Carlo  :  hasten  to  the  wood,  if  you  love 
me."  And  the  violet-coloured  domino  forced  his  way 
into  the  crowd  which  filled  the  hall. 

**Now  for  my  journey  to  Pisa,"  said  I.  "Here  I  am, 
implicated  in  high  treason,  perhaps,  in  consequence  of  my 
putting  on  a  sky-blue  domino.  Well,  there's  no  help  for 
it." 

In  a  few  minutes  I  had  gained  the  narrow  avenue,  and 
having  pursued  it  about  fifty  yards,  perceived  the  glaring 


The  Sky-blue  Domino  2^;^ 

eyes  of  the  crouched  negro.  By  the  starlight,  I  could 
just  distinguish  that  he  had  a  basket,  or  something  like 
one,  before  him. 

"What  do  you  come  for,  Signor?"  said  the  negro, 
rising  on  his  feet. 

"  For  what  has  been  placed  under  your  charge ;  here 
is  the  ring  of  your  master." 

The  negro  put  his  fingers  to  the  ring  and  felt  it,  that 
he  might  recognise  it  by  its  size  and  shape. 

"Here  it  is,  Signor,"  said  he,  lifting  up  the  basket 
gently,  and  putting  it  into  my  arms.  It  was  not  heavy, 
although  somewhat  cumbrous  from  its  size. 

"  Hark !  Signor,  there  is  confusion  in  the  palazzo. 
You  must  be  quick,  and  I  must  not  be  seen  with  you." 
And  away  darted  the  negro  like  lightning  through  the 
bushes. 

I  also  hastened  away  with  the  basket  (contents  un- 
known), for  it  appeared  to  me  that  affairs  were  coming 
to  a  crisis.  I  heard  people  running  different  ways,  and 
voices  approaching  me.  When  I  emerged  from  the 
narrow  avenue,  I  perceived  several  figures  coming  down 
the  dark  walk  at  a  rapid  pace,  and,  seized  with  a  sort  of 
panic,  I  took  to  my  heels.  I  soon  found  that  they  were 
in  pursuit,  and  I  increased  my  speed.  In  the  gloom  of 
the  night,  I  unfortunately  tripped  over  a  stone,  and  fell 
with  the  basket  to  the  ground ;  and  then  the  screams 
from  within  informed  me  that  the  treasure  intrusted  to 
my  safe  keeping  was  a  child.  Fearful  that  it  was  hurt, 
and  forgetting,  lor  the  time,  the  danger  of  being  captured, 
I  opened  the  lid,  and  examined  its  limbs,  while  I  tried  to 
pacify  it ;  and  while  I  was  sitting  down  in  my  sky-blue 
domino,  thus  occupied  in  hushing  a  baby,  I  was  seized 
by  both  shoulders,  and  found  myself  a  prisoner. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  rudeness,  Signors  ?  "  said 
I,  hardly  knowing  what  to  say. 

"  You  are  arrested  by  order  of  the  Grand  Duke,"  was 
the  reply. 

"  I  am  arrested  ! — why  ? — I  am  an  Englishman  !  " 


254  Oll^  Podrida 

*'  That  makes  no  diiFerence;  the  orders  are  to  arrest  all 
found  in  the  garden  in  sky-blue  dominos." 

"  Confound  the  sky-blue  domino ! "  thought  I,  for  the 
twentieth  time  at  least.  "Well,  Signors,  I  will  attend 
you ;  but  first  let  me  try  to  pacify  this  poor  frightened 
infant." 

"  Strange  that  he  should  be  found  running  away  with 
a  child  at  the  same  time  that  the  Lady  Viola  has  dis- 
appeared !  "  observed  one  of  my  captors. 

"  You  are  right,  Signors,"  replied  I ;  "  it  is  very 
strange;  and  what  is  more  strange  is,  that  I  can  no 
more  explain  it  than  you  can.  I  am  now  ready  to 
accompany  you.  Oblige  me  by  one  of  you  carrying  the 
basket  while  I  take  care  of  the  infant." 

In  a  few  minutes  we  had  arrived  at  the  palazzo.  I  had 
retained  my  mask,  and  I  was  conducted  through  the  crowd 
into  the  saloon  into  which  I  had  previously  entered  when  I 
delivered  the  packet  to  the  Grand  Duke. 

"  There  he  is  !  there  he  is  !  "  was  buzzed  through  the 
crowd  in  the  hall.  "  Holy  Virgin  !  he  has  a  child  in 
his  arms  !  Bambino  BeUisstmo  !  "  Such  were  the  exclama- 
tions of  wonder  and  surprise  as  they  made  a  lane  for  my 
passage,  and  I  was  in  the  presence  of  the  Grand  Duke, 
who  appeared  to  be  in  a  state  of  great  excitement. 

"  It  is  the  same  person  !  "  exclaimed  the  Duke.  "  Con- 
fess !  are  you  not  the  party  who  put  a  packet  into  my 
hands  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  since  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  person,  your  Highness,"  replied  I,  as  I  patted 
and  soothed  the  frightened  child. 

**  Who  gave  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  May  it  please  your  Highness,  I  do  not  know." 

"  What  child  is  that  ?  " 

**  May  it  please  your  Highness,  I  do  not  know." 

**  Where  did  you  get  it  ? " 

"  Out  of  that  basket,  your  Highness." 

**  Who  gave  you  the  basket  ?  " 

"  May  it  please  your  Highness,  I  do  not  know." 

"  You  are  trifling  with  me.     Let  him  be  searched." 


The  Sky-blue  Do  nine  255 

**  May  it  please  your  Highness,  I  will  save  them  that 
trouble  if  one  of  the  ladies  will  take  the  infant.  I  have 
received  a  great  many  presents  this  evening,  all  of  which  I 
will  have  the  honour  of  displaying  before  your  Highness." 

One  of  the  ladies  held  out  her  arms  to  the  infant,  who 
immediately  bent  from  mine  toward  her,  naturally  clinging 
to  the  other  sex  as  its  friend  in  distress. 

**  In  the  first  place,  your  Highness,  I  have  this  evening 
received  this  ring,"  taking  off  my  finger  the  one  given 
by  the  party  in  a  violet-coloured  domino,  and  presenting  it 
to  him. 

"  And  from  whom  ? "  said  his  Highness,  instantly 
recognising   the  ring. 

"  May  it  please  your  Highness,  I  do  not  know.  I  have 
also  received  another  ring,  your  Highness,"  continued  I, 
taking  off  the  ring  given  me  by  the  black  domino. 

**  And  who  gave  you  this  ,? "  interrogated  the  Duke, 
again  evidently  recognising  it. 

"  May  it  please  your  Highness,  I  do  not  know.  Also, 
this  stiletto,  but  from  whom,  I  must  again  repeat,  I  do  not 
know.  Also,  this  packet,  with  directions  to  put  it  into  a 
dead  man's  bosom." 

**  And  you  are,  I  presume,  equally  ignorant  of  the  party 
who  gave  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  Equally  so,  your  Highness  ;  as  ignorant  as  I  am  of 
the  party  who  desired  me  to  present  you  with  the  other 
packet  which  I  delivered.  Here  is  also  a  paper  I  was 
desired  to  pin  upon  a  man's  clothes  after  I  had  assassinated 
him." 

"Indeed! — and  to  this,  also,  you  plead  total  ignor- 
ance ? " 

**  I  have  but  one  answer  to  give  to  all,  your  Highness, 
which  is,  I  do  not  know." 

"Perhaps,  sir,  you  do  not  know  your  own  name  or 
profession,"  observed  his  Highness,  with  a  sneer. 

"  Yes,  your  Highness,"  replied  I,  taking  off  my  mask, 
"  that  I  do  know.  I  am  an  Englishman,  and,  I  trust,  a 
gentleman,  and  a  man  of  honour.     My  name  is  Herbert ; 


256  Olla  Podrida 

and  I  have  more  than  once  had  the  honour  to  be  a  guest 
at  your  Highness's  entertainments." 

"  Signor,  I  recognise  you,"  replied  the  Grand  Duke. 
**  Let  the  room  be  cleared — I  must  speak  with  this 
gentleman  alone." 

"When  the  company  had  quitted  the  saloon,  I  entered 
into  a  minute  detail  of  the  events  of  the  evening,  to  which 
his  Highness  paid  the  greatest  attention ;  and  when  I  had 
finished,  the  whole  mystery  was  unravelled  to  me  by 
him,  and  with  which  I  will  now  satisfy  the  curiosity  of 
my  readers. 

The  Grand  Duke  had  one  daughter,  by  name  Viola, 
whom  he  had  wished  to  marry  to  Rodolph,  Count  of 
Istria ;  but  Viola  had  met  with  Albert,  Marquis  of  Salerno, 
and  a  mutual  attachment  had  ensued.  Although  the 
Grand  Duke  would  not  force  his  daughter's  wishes  and 
oblige  her  to  marry  Count  Rodolph,  at  the  same  time  he 
would  not  consent  to  her  espousals  with  the  Marquis 
Albert.  Count  Rodolph  had  discovered  the  intimacy 
between  Viola  and  the  Marquis  of  Salerno,  and  had  made 
more  than  one  unsuccessful  attempt  to  get  rid  of  his  rival 
by  assassination.  After  some  time,  a  private  marriage  with 
the  marquis  had  been  consented  to  by  Viola  -,  and  a  year 
afterwards  the  Lady  Viola  retired  to  the  country,  and 
without  the  knowledge,  or  even  suspicions,  of  her  father, 
had  given  birth  to  a  male  child,  which  had  been  passed 
off  as  the  offspring  of  one  of  the  ladies  of  the  court 
who  was  married,  and  to  whom  the  secret  had  been 
confided. 

At  this  period  the  secret  societies,  especially  the 
Carbonari,  had  become  formidable  in  Italy,  and  all  the 
crowned  heads  and  reigning  princes  were  using  every 
exertion  to  suppress  them.  Count  Rodolph  was  at  the 
head  of  these  societies,  having  joined  them  to  increase  his 
power,  and  to  have  at  his  disposal  the  means  of  getting 
rid  of  his  rival.  Of  this  the  Marquis  of  Salerno  had 
received  intimation,  and  for  some  time  had  been  trying 
to  obtain  proof  against  the  count  5  for  he  knew  that  if 


J 


The  Sky-blue  Domino  257 

once  it  was  proved,  Count  Rodolph  would  never  be  again 
permitted  to  appear  in  the  state  of  Lucca.  On  the  other 
hand,  Count  Rodolph  had  been  making  every  arrangement 
to  get  rid  of  his  rival,  and  had  determined  that  it  should 
be  effected  at  this  masquerade. 

The  Marquis  of  Salerno  had  notice  given  him  of  this 
intention,  and  also  had  on  that  morning  obtained  the  proof 
against  Count  Rodolph,  which  he  was  now  determined 
to  forward  to  the  Grand  Duke  ;  but,  aware  that  his 
assassination  by  the  Carbonari  was  to  be  attempted,  and 
also  that  the  wrath  of  the  Grand  Duke  would  be  excessive 
when  he  was  informed  of  their  private  marriage,  he 
resolved  to  fly  with  his  wife  to  Pisa,  trusting  that  the 
proofs  of  Count  Rodolph  being  connected  with  the 
Carbonari,  and  a  little  time,  would  soften  down  the  Grand 
Duke's  anger.  The  marquis  had  arranged  that  he  should 
escape  from  the  Duke's  dominions  on  the  night  of  the 
masquerade,  as  it  would  be  much  easier  for  his  wife  to 
accompany  him  from  thence  than  from  the  Grand  Duke's 
palace,  which  was  well  guarded ;  but  it  was  necessary 
that  they  should  travel  on  horseback,  and  they  could  not 
take  their  child  with  them.  Viola  would  not  consent 
that  it  should  be  left  behind ;  and  on  this  emergency  he 
had  written  to  his  friend,  the  Count  d'Ossore,  to  come  to 
their  assistance  at  the  masquerade,  and,  that  they  might 
recognise  him,  to  wear  a  sky-blue  domino,  a  colour  but 
seldom  put  on.  The  Count  d'Ossore  had  that  morning 
left  his  town  mansion  on  a  hunting  excursion,  and  did 
not  receive  the  letter,  of  which  the  marquis  and  Viola 
were  ignorant.  Such  was  the  state  of  affairs  at  the 
time  that  I  put  on  the  sky-blue  domino  to  go  to  the 
m^asquerade. 

My  first  meeting  with  the  marquis  in  his  violet-coloured 
domino  is  easily  understood  :  being  in  a  sky-blue  domino  1 
was  mistaken  for  the  Count  d'Ossore.  I  was  myself  led 
into  the  mistake  by  the  Marquis  Albert  having  the  same 
Christian  name  as  my  English  friend.  The  second  meeting 
with  the  Count  Rodolph,  in  the  black  domino,  was  acci- 

O  R 


258  OUa  Podrida 

dental.  The  next  walk  had  been  appointed  as  the  place 
of  meeting  with  the  Carbonari  Felippo  and  his  companions  ; 
but  Count  Rodolph,  perceiving  me  examining  my  stiletto 
by  the  light  of  the  lamp,  presumed  that  I  was  Felippo,  and 
that  I  had  mistaken  the  one  path  for  the  other  which  had 
been  agreed  upon.  The  papers  given  to  me  by  Count 
Rodolph  were  Carbonari  papers,  which  were  to  be  hid  in 
the  marquis's  bosom  after  he  had  been  assassinated,  to  make 
it  appear  that  he  had  belonged  to  that  society,  and  by  the 
paper  affixed  to  his  clothes,  that  he  had  been  murdered 
by  the  agents  of  the  society  for  having  betrayed  them. 
The  papers  which  the  marquis  had  requested  me  to  give 
to  the  Grand  Duke  were  the  proofs  of  Count  Rodolph's 
belonging  to  the  secret  society ;  and  with  those  papers  was 
enclosed  a  letter  to  the  Grand  Duke,  in  which  they  ac- 
knowledged their  secret  union.  And  now,  I  believe,  the 
reader  will  comprehend  the  whole  of  this  mysterious 
affair. 

After  all  had  been  explained,  I  ventured  to  ask  his 
Highness  if  he  would  permit  me  to  fulfil  my  promise  of 
taking  the  child  to  its  mother,  as  I  considered  it  a  point  of 
honour  that  I  should  keep  my  engagement,  the  more  so, 
as  the  delay  would  occasion  the  greatest  distress  to  his 
daughter ;  and  I  ventured  to  add,  that  I  trusted  his 
Highness  would  pardon  what  could  not  now  be  remedied, 
and  that  I  should  have  the  satisfaction  of  being  the  bearer 
of  such  pleasing  intelligence  to  his  daughter  and  the 
marquis. 

The  Grand  Duke  paced  the  room  for  a  minute,  and  then 
replied,  "  Signor  Herbert,  I  feel  so  disgusted  with  the 
treachery  and  baseness  of  Count  Rodolph,  that  I  hardly 
need  observe,  if  my  daughter  were  free  he  never  should 
espouse  her ;  indeed,  he  will  have  immediate  orders  to  quit 
the  state.  You  have  been  instrumental  in  preserving  the  life 
of  the  Marquis  of  Salerno,  who  is  my  son-in-law,  and  as 
matters  now  stand,  I  am  indebted  to  you.  Your  dismissal 
of  the  bravos,  by  means  of  the  count's  ring,  was  a  masterly 
stroke.     You  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  taking  my  forgive- 


The  Sky-blue  Domino  259 

ness  to  my  daughter  and  her  husband ;  but  as  for  the 
child,  it  may  as  well  remain  here.  Tell  Viola  I  retain  it  as 
a  hostage  for  the  quick  return  of  its  mother," 

I  took  my  leave  of  his  Highness,  and  hastened  to  Pisa, 
where  I  soon  found  out  the  retreat  of  the  marquis  and 
his  wife.  I  sent  up  my  name,  requesting  immediate  ad- 
mittance, as  having  a  message  from  the  Grand  Duke.  I 
found  them  in  great  distress.  The  Count  d'Ossore  had 
returned  late  on  the  night  of  the  masquerade,  found  the 
letter,  hastened  to  the  Marquesa  de  Cesto's,  and  had 
arrived  just  after  the  elopement  had  been  discovered.  He 
immediately  followed  them  to  Pisa,  when  an  explanation 
took  place,  and  they  discovered  that  they  had  been  com- 
municating with  some  unknown  person,  by  whom  they 
had,  in  all  probability,  been  betrayed. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  portray  their  astonishment  and 
joy  when  I  entered  into  a  detail  of  what  had  occurred,  and 
wound  up  with  the  message  from  the  Grand  Duke  ;  and  I 
hardly  need  add,  now  that  I  wind  up  my  story,  that  the 
proofs  of  gratitude  I  received  from  the  marquis  and  his 
wife,  during  my  subsequent  residence  in  Italy,  left  me  no 
occasion  to  repent  that  I  had  gone  to  the  masquerade  of 
the  Marquesa  de  Cesto,  in  a  Sky-blue  Domino. 


Modern  Town  Houses 

I  HAVE  often  thought,  when  you  consider  the  difference  of 
comfort  between  houses  built  from  sixty  to  a  hundred 
years  back,  in  comparison  with  the  modern  edifices,  that 
the  cry  of  the  magician  in  "  Aladdin,"  had  he  called  out 
"  new  houses,"  instead  of  "  new  lamps,"  for  old  ones, 
would  not  have  appeared  so  very  absurd.  It  was  my 
good  fortune,  for  the  major  part  of  my  life,  to  occupy  an 
ancient  house,  built,  I  believe,  in  the  reign  of  Queen 
Elizabeth.  My  father  lived  in  it  before  I  was  in  existence  : 
I  was  born  in  it,  and  it  was  bequeathed  to  me.  It  has 
since  been  my  misfortune  to  have  Hved  three  years  in  one  of 
the  modern-built  houses  ;  and  although  I  have  had  my  share 
of  the  ills  to  which  we  all  are  heir,  I  must  date  my  real 
unhappiness  from  the  first  month  after  I  took  possession. 
With  your  permission,  I  will  enter  into  my  history,  as  it 
may  prove  a  warning  to  others,  who  will  not  remember  the 
old  proverb  of  "  Let  well  alone. ^^ 

I  am  a  married  man,  with  six  children ;  my  three  eldest 
are  daughters,  and  have  now  quitted  a  school,  near 
Portman-square,  to  which  my  wife  insisted  upon  my 
sending  them,  as  it  was  renowned  for  finishing  young 
ladies.  Until  their  return  to  domiciliate  themselves  under 
my  roof,  I  never  heard  a  complaint  of  my  house,  which 
was  situated  at  Brompton.  It  was  large,  airy,  and 
comfortable,  with  excellent  shrubberies,  and  a  few  acres  of 
land  ;  and  I  possessed  every  comfort  and  even  luxury 
which  could  be  rationally  required,  my  wife  and  daughters 
having  their  carriage,  and  in  every  respect  my  establish- 
ment being  that  of  a  gentleman. 

I  had  not,  however,  taken  my  daughters  from  school 


Modern  Town  Houses  261 

more  than  two  months,  before  I  was  told  that  we  were 
*'  living  out  of  the  world,"  although  not  a  mile  and  a  half 
from  Hyde  Park  Corner  y  and,  to  my  surprise,  my  wife 
joined  in  the  cry  ;  it  was  always  from  morn  to  night, 
"  We  might  do  this  but,  we  cannot  do  this,  because  we  are 
here  quite  out  of  the  world."  It  was  too  far  to  dine  out 
in  town  ,  too  far  for  people  to  come  and  dine  with  us  ;  too 
far  to  go  to  the  play,  or  the  opera ;  too  far  to  drive  in  the 
park  ;  too  far  even  to  walk  in  Kensington  Gardens.  I  re- 
monstrated, that  we  had  managed  to  dine  out,  to  receive 
visitors,  and  to  enjoy  all  other  amusements  very  well  for  a 
considerable  number  of  years,  and  that  it  did  not  appear  to 
me  that  Brompton  had  walked  away  from  London,  on 
the  contrary,  that  London  was  making  rapid  advances 
towards  Brompton  ;  but  it  would  not  do, — all  day  the 
phrase  rang  in  my  ears,  "  out  of  the  world,"  until  I  almost 
began  to  wish  that  I  was  out  too.  But  it  is  no  use  having 
the  best  of  an  argument  when  opposed  to  women.  I  had 
my  choice,  either  to  give  up  my  house,  and  take  another 
in  London,  or  to  give  up  my  peace.  With  an  unwilling 
sigh,  I  at  last  consented  to  leave  a  place  dear  to  me, 
from  long  association  and  many  reminiscences ;  and  it  was 
arranged  that  Brompton  Hall  was  to  be  let,  or  sold,  and 
that  we  were  to  look  out  immediately  for  a  house  in  some 
of  the  squares  in  the  metropolis.  If  my  wife  and  daughters 
found  that  the  distance  from  London  was  too  far  for  other 
purposes,  at  all  events  it  was  not  too  far  for  house-hunting. 
They  were  at  it  incessantly  week  after  week  ;  and,  at  last, 
they  fixed  upon  one  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Belgrave- 
square,  which,  as  they  repeated,  possessed  all  the  cheerful- 
ness and  fresh  air  of  the  country,  with  all  the  advantages 
of  a  town  residence.  The  next  day  I  was  to  be  dragged 
to  see  it,  and  give  my  opinion  ;  at  the  same  time,  from  the 
commendations  bestowed  upon  it  previous  to  my  going,  I 
felt  assured  that  I  was  expected  to  give  t/:ieir  opinion,  and 
not  my  own. 

The  next  day,  accordingly,  we  repaired  thither,  setting 
off  immediately  after  breakfast,  to  meet  the  surveyor  and 


262  Olla  Podrida 

builder,  who  was  to  be  on  the  spot.  The  house  in 
question  was  one  of  a  row  just  building,  or  built,  whitened 
outside,  in  imitation  of  stone.  It  was  No.  2.  No.  I  was 
finished  ;  but  the  windows  still  stained  with  the  drippings 
of  the  whitewash  and  colouring.  No.  2,  the  one  in 
question,  was  complete ;  and,  as  the  builder  asserted, 
ready  for  immediate  occupation.  No.  g  was  not  so  far 
advanced.  As  for  the  others,  they  were  at  present 
nothing  but  carcases,  without  even  the  front  steps  built  to 
them  ;  and  you  entered  them  by  a  drawbridge  of 
planks. 

The  builder  stood  at  the  front  door,  and  bowed  most 
respectfully.  "  Why,"  observed  I,  looking  at  the  piles  of 
mortar,  lime,  and  bricks,  standing  about  in  all  directions, 
"  we  shall  be  smothered  with  dust  and  lime  for  the  next 
two  years." 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  sir,"  replied  the  builder;  "every 
house  in  the  row  will  be  finished  before  the  winter.  We 
really  cannot  attend  to  the  applications  for  them." 

We  entered  the  house. 

"  Is  not  the  entrance  handsome  ? "  observed  my  wife ; 
"  so  neat  and  clean." 

To  this  I  had  not  a  reply  to  make ;  it  certainly  did  look 
neat  and  clean. 

We  went  into  the  dining-room.  "  What  a  nice  room  !  " 
exclaimed  my  eldest  daughter.  **  How  many  can  we  dine 
in  this  room  ?  " 

"  Um  !  "  replied  I ;  "  about  twelve,  I  suppose,  comfort- 
ably." 

"Dear  me!"  observed  the  builder;  "you  have  no 
notion  of  the  size  of  the  house  ;  rooms  are  so  deceiving, 
unfurnished.  You  may  sit  down  twenty  with  ease  ;  I'll 
appeal  to  the  lady.     Don't  you  think  so,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  replied  my  wife. 

After  that  we  went  over  the  drawing-rooms,  bedrooms, 
and  attics. 

Every  bedroom  was  apportioned  by  my  wife  and 
daughters,  and  the  others  were  allotted  to  the  servants  ; 


Modern  Town  Houses  263 

and  that  in  the  presence  of  the  builder,  who  took  good 
note  of  all  that  passed. 

The  kitchen  was  admired ;  so  were  the  pantry,  scullery, 
coal-hole,  dust-hole,  &c. ;  all  so  nice  and  clean  ;  so 
compact ;  and,  as  the  builder  observed,  not  a  nail  to  drive 
anywhere. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  what  do  you  think  now  ?  isn't  it  a 
charming  house  ?  '*  said  my  wife,  as  we  re-ascended  into 
the  dining-parlour. 

"  It's  a  very  nice  house,  my  dear  *,  but  still  it  requires  a 
little  consideration,"  replied  I. 

**  Consideration,  my  dear  !  "  replied  my  wife  ;  "  what ! 
now  that  you  have  gone  over  it  ?  " 

**  I  am  afraid  that  I  car  not  give  you  very  long,  sir," 
observed  the  builder;  "there  are  two  other  parties  after 
the  house,  and  I  am  to  give  them  an  answer  by  two 
o'clock." 

"  Mr  Smithers  told  me  the  same  yesterday,"  whispered 
my  wife. 

"What  did  you  say  the  rent  was,  Mr  Smithers  ?" 

"  Only  ;^200  per  annum. 

*'  Any  ground-rent  ? " 

"Only  ^27,  IOJ-." 

"  And  the  taxes  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  will  be  a  mere  trifle." 

"  The  rent  appears  to  me  to  be  very  high." 

"  High,  my  dear  sir  !  consider  the  situation,  the  advan- 
tages. We  can't  build  them  fast  enough  at  that  price. 
But  of  course,  sir,  you  best  know,"  replied  he,  carelessly 
walking  towards  the  window. 

"  Take  it,  my  dear,"  said  my  wife. 

"  You  must  take  it,  papa." 

"  Pray  take  it,  papa." 

"  Mr  Whats-your-name,  I  beg  your  pardon " 

"Smithers,  sir,"  said  the  builder,  turning  round. 

"  Pray,  Mr  Smithers,  what  term  of  lease  do  you  let  at  ?  " 

"  Seven,  fourteen,  or  twenty-one,  at  the  option  of  either 
party,  sir." 


264  Olla  Podrida 

"  I  should  have  no  objection  to  take  it  for  three  years." 

"  Three  years,  my  dear  sir  ! — that  would  be  doing  your- 
self an  injustice.  You  would  lose  half  the  value  of  your 
fixtures  provided  you  left — and  then  the  furniture.  Depend 
upon  it,  sir,  if  you  once  get  into  it,  you  will  never  wish  to 
leave  it." 

"That  may  or  not  be,"  replied  I;  **  but  I  will  not  take 
it  for  more  than  three  years.  The  town-air  may  not  agree 
with  me  j  and  if,  as  you  say,  people  are  so  anxious  to  take 
the  houses,  of  course  it  can  make  no  difference  to  you." 

"  I'm  afraid,  sir,  that  for  so  short  a  time " 

"  I  will  not  take  it  for  longer,"  replied  I,  rising  up, 
glad  of  an  excuse  to  be  off. 

''  Oh,  papa  !  " 

''My  dear  Mr  B " 

*'  On  that  point,"  replied  I,  "  I  will  not  be  overruled. 
I  will  not  take  a  lease  for  more  than  three  years,  with  the 
right  of  continuing  if  I  please." 

The  builder  perceived  that  I  was  in  earnest, 

"Well,  sir,"  replied  he,  "I  hardly  know  what  to  say  ; 
but  rather  than  disappoint  the  ladies,  I  will  accept  you  as  a 
tenant  for  three  years  certain." 

Confound  the  fellow,  thought  I;  but  I  was  pinned,  and 
there  was  an  end  of  the  matter.  Mr  Smithers  pulled  out 
paper  and  ink  j  two  letters  of  agreement  were  written 
upon  a  small  deal  table,  covered  with  blotches  of  various- 
coloured  paints  ;  and  the  affair  was  thus  concluded. 

We  got  into  the  carriage  and  drove  home,  my  wife  and 
daughters  in  ecstasies,  and  I  obliged  to  appear  very  well 
satisfied,  that  I  might  not  damp  their  spirits ;  yet  I  must 
say  that  although  the  house  appeared  a  very  nice  house,  I 
had  my  forebodings. 

"  At  all  events,"  thought  I,  "  the  lease  is  only  for  three 
years  ; "  and  thus  I  consoled  myself. 

The  next  day  the  whole  house  was  in  commotion.  I 
believe  my  wife  and  daughters  were  up  at  daybreak. 
When  I  went  into  the  breakfast-room,  I  discovered  that 
the  pictures  had  been  taken  down,  although  there  was  no 


Modern  Town  Houses  265 

chance  of  their  being  hung  up  for  many  weeks  at  least, 
and  everything  was  in  preparation  for  packing  up.  After 
breakfast  my  wife  set  off  for  town  to  order  carpets  and 
curtains,  and  did  not  come  home  till  six  o'clock,  very  tired 
with  the  fatigues  of  the  day.  She  had  also  brought  the 
measure  of  ev^ery  grate,  to  ascertain  what  fenders  would 
suit ;  the  measure  of  the  bedrooms  and  attics,  to  remodel 
the  carpets ;  for  it  was  proposed  that  Brompton  Hall 
should  be  disposed  of,  the  new  occupier  taking  at  a  valu- 
ation what  furniture  might  be  left.  To  this  I  appeared  to 
consent ;  but  was  resolved  in  my  own  mind  that,  if  taken, 
it  should  only  be  for  the  same  term  of  years  as  my  new 
lease.  I  will  pass  over  a  month  of  hurry,  bustle,  and 
confusion ;  at  the  end  of  which  I  found  myself  in  our  new 
habitation.  It  was  completely  furnished,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  drawing-room  carpet,  which  had  not  been  laid 
down,  but  was  still  in  a  roll  tied  up  with  packthread  in 
the  middle  of  the  room.  The  cause  of  this  I  soon  under- 
stood from  my  wife.  It  was  always  the  custom,  she  said, 
to  give  a  house-warming  upon  entering  a  new  house,  and 
she  therefore  proposed  giving  a  little  dance.  To  this,  as 
it  would  please  her  and  my  daughters,  I  raised  no 
objection. 

I  have  always  observed  that  what  is  proposed  as  a  little 
dance  invariably  ends  in  a  great  one  ;  for  from  the  time  of 
proposing  till  the  cards  are  about,  it  increases  like  a  snow- 
ball ;  but  that  arises,  perhaps,  from  the  extreme  difficulty 
of  knowing  when  to  draw  the  line  between  friends  and 
acquaintances.  I  have  also  observed  that  when  your  wife 
and  daughters  intend  such  a  thing,  they  always  obtain 
permission  for  the  ball  first,  and  then  tack  on  the  supper 
afterwards ;  commencing  with  a  mere  stand-up  affair — 
sandwiches,  cakes,  and  refreshments,  and  ending  with  a 
regular  sit-down  affair,  with  Gunter  presiding  over  all. 
The  music  from  two  fiddles  and  a  piano  also  swells  into 
Collinet's  band — verifying  the  old  adage,  **In  for  a  penny, 
in  for  a  pound."  But  to  all  this  I  gave  my  consent;  I 
could  afford  it  well,  and  I  liked  to  please  my  wife  and 


266  Olla  Podrida 

daughters.  The  ball  was  given,  and  this  house-warming 
ended  in  house-breaking;  for  just  before  the  supper- 
quadrille,  as  it  was  termed,  when  about  twenty-four  young 
ladies  and  gentlemen  were  going  the  grand  ronde,  a  loud 
noise  below,  with  exclamations  and  shrieks,  was  heard, 
and  soon  afterwards  the  whole  staircase  was  smothered 
with  dust. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  cried  my  wife,  who  had  passed 
to  the  landing-place  on  the  stairs  before  me. 

"  Ma'am,"  said  one  of  Mr  Gunter's  men,  shaking  the 
lappets  of  his  blue  coat,  which  were  covered  with  white 
dust,  "  the  whole  ceiling  of  the  dining-room  has  come 
down." 

'*  Ceiling  come  down  !  "  screamed  my  wife. 

**  Yes,  ma'am,"  replied  our  own  servant ;  "  and  the 
supper  and  supper-tables  are  all  smashed  flat  with  the 
weight  on  it." 

Here  was  a  catastrophe.  My  wife  hastened  down,  and 
I  followed.  Sure  enough  the  weight  of  mortar  had 
crushed  all  beneath  it — all  was  chaos  and  confusion. 
Jellies,  blancmanges,  pates,  cold  roasts,  creams,  trifles — all 
in  one  mass  of  ruin,  mixed  up  with  lime,  horse-hair,  plaster 
of  Paris,  and  stucco.  It  wore  all  the  appearance  of  a  Swiss 
avalanche  in  miniature. 

"  Good  heavens,  how  dreadful !  "  exclaimed  my  wife. 

**How  much  more  so  if  there  had  been  people  in  the 
room,"  replied  I. 

"What  could  be  the  cause  of  it?"  exclaimed  my 
wife. 

"These  new  houses,  sir,  won't  bear  dancing  in," 
observed  Mr  Gunter's  head  man. 

"So  it  appears,"  replied  I. 

This  unfortunate  accident  was  the  occasion  of  the  party 
breaking  up :  they  knew  that  there  was  no  chance  of 
supper,  which  they  had  looked  forward  to  ;  so  they  put  on 
their  shawls  and  departed,  leaving  us  to  clear  up  the  wreck 
at  our  leisure.  In  fact,  as  my  daughters  declared,  it  quite 
spoiled  the  ball  as  well  as  the  supper. 


Modern  Town  Houses  267 

The  next  morning  I  sent  for  Mr  Smithers,  who 
made  his  appearance,  and  showed  him  what  had  taken 
place. 

"  Dear  me,  I'm  very  sorry ;  but  you  had  too  many 
people  above  stairs — that  is  very  clear." 

"  Very  clear,  indeed,  Mr  Smithers.  "We  had  a  ball  last 
night." 

"  A  ball,  sir  !     Oh,  then  no  wonder." 

"  No  wonder !  What !  do  you  mean  to  say  that  balls 
are  not  to  be  given  ?  " 

"Why,  really,  sir,  we  do  not  build  private  houses  for 
ball-rooms — we  could  not,  sir  ;  the  price  of  timber  just 
now  is  enormous,  and  the  additional  strength  required 
would  never  pay  us." 

"  What  then  !  do  you  mean  to  say  that  there  are  no  balls 
to  be  given  in  London  ? " 

**  Oh  no,  sir  ! — certainly  not ;  but  you  must  be  aware 
that  few  people  do.  Even  our  aristocracy  hire  Willis's 
rooms  for  their  balls.  Some  of  the  old  houses  indeed, 
such  as  Devonshire  House,  may  do  for  such  a  thing." 

"But,  Mr  Smithers,  I  expect  you  will  make  this  ceiling 
good." 

"  Much  obliged  to  you  sir,  for  giving  me  the  preference 
— I  will  do  it  as  reasonable  as  anybody,"  replied  Mr 
Smithers,  bowing.  "  I  will  order  my  workmen  directly — 
they  are  only  next  door." 

For  a  fortnight  we  were  condemned  to  dine  in  the  back 
dining-room  -,  and  after  that  Mr  Smithers  sent  in  a  bill 
which  cost  me  more  than  the  ball  and  supper. 

So  soon  as  all  was  right  again,  I  determined  that  I  would 
hang  up  my  pictures ;  for  I  had  been  accustomed  to  look 
at  them  for  years,  and  I  missed  them.  I  sent  for  a 
carpenter  and  gave  him  directions. 

**  I  have  the  middle  now,  sir,  exactly,"  said  the  man, 
standing  on  the  high  steps  ;  "  but,"  continued  he,  tapping 
with  his  hammer,  "  I  can't  find  wood." 

"  Can't  find  wood  !  " 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  tapping  as  far  as  he  could 


268  Olla  Podrida 

reach  from  right  to  left ;  "  nothing  to  nail  to,  sir  But 
there  never  is  no  wood  in  these  new-built  houses." 

**  Confound  your  new  houses  !  "  exclaimed  I. 

"  Well,  it  is  very  provoking,  my  dear !  "  exclaimed  my 
wife. 

**  I  suppose  that  their  new  houses  are  not  built  for 
pictures  any  more  than  for  balls,"  replied  I ;  and  I  sighed. 
"  What  must  be  done  ?  " 

*'  I  think,  sir,  if  you  were  to  order  brass  rods  to  be  fixed 
from  one  corner  to  the  other,  we  might  find  means  to  fasten 
them,"  observed  the  carpenter ;  **  but  there's  no  wood,  that's 
certain." 

"  What  the  devil  is  the  house  built  of  then  ? "  exclaimed 
I. 

'*  All  lath  and  plaster,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  tapping 
right  and  left. 

At  a  heavy  expense  I  procured  the  rods,  and  at  last  the 
pictures  were  hung  up. 

The  next  annoyance  that  we  had  was  a  very  bad  smell, 
which  we  found  to  proceed  from  the  drains ;  and  the 
bricklayers  were  sent  for.  All  the  drains  were  choked,  it 
appeared,  from  their  being  so  very  narrow ;  and  after 
having  up  the  whole  basement,  at  the  expense  of  ^^40,  that 
nuisance  was  abated. 

We  now  had  two  months'  repose,  and  I  was  in  hopes 
that  things  would  go  on  more  comfortably  ;  but  one  day  I 
overheard  a  conversation  between  my  wife  and  daughters, 
as  I  passed  by  the  door  of  the  room,  which  I  must  candidly 
acknowledge  gave  me  satisfaction. 

"  It's  really  very  awkward,  mamma — one  don't  know 
where  to  put  anything  :  there's  not  a  cupboard  or  stow- 
hole  in  the  whole  house — not  even  a  store-room." 

"  Well,  it  is  so,  my  dear ,  I  wonder  we  did  not  observe 
it  when  we  looked  over  it.  What  a  nice  set  of  cupboards 
we  had  at  Brompton  Hall." 

"  Oh !  yes — I  wish  we  had  them  here,  mamma. 
Couldn't  we  have  some  built  ?  " 

"  I  don't  like  to  speak  to  your  papa  about  it,  my  dear ; 


Modern  Town  Houses  269 

he  has  already  been  put  to  such  expense,  what  with  the 
ceiling  and  the  drains." 

"  Then  don't,  mamma ;  papa  is  really  very  good- 
natured." 

The  equinoxes  now  came  on,  and  we  had  several  gales 
of  wind,  with  heavy  rain — the  slates  blew  ofF  and  rattled 
up  and  down  all  night,  while  the  wind  howled  round  the 
corner  of  the  square.  The  next  morning  complaints  from 
all  the  attic  residents  ;  one's  bed  was  wetted  quite  through 
with  the  water  dropping  through  the  ceiling — another  had 
been  obliged  to  put  a  basin  on  the  floor  to  catch  the  leak 
—  all  declared  that  the  roof  was  like  a  sieve.  Sent  again 
for  Mr  Smithers,  and  made  a  complaint. 

"  This  time,  Mr  Smithers,"  said  I,  with  the  lease  in  nxy 
hand,  "  I  believe  you  will  acknowledge  these  are  landlord's 
repairs." 

"  Certainly,  sir,  certainly,"  exclaimed  Mr  Smithers ; 
"  I  shall  desire  one  of  my  men  to  look  to  it  immediately  ; 
but  the  fact  is,  with  such  heavy  gales,  the  slates  must  be 
expected  to  move  a  little.  Duchesses  and  countesses  are 
Very  light,  and  the  wind  gets  underneath  them." 

"  Duchesses  and  countesses  very  light !  "  exclaimed  my 
wife  ;  "  what  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  It's  the  term  we  give  to  slates,  madam,"  replied  he ; 
"  we  cannot  put  on  a  heavy  roof  with  a  brick-and-a-half 
wall.     It  would  not  support  one." 

"  Brick-and-a-half  wall !  "  exclaimed  I ; — "  surely,  Mr 
Smithers,  that's  not  quite  safe  with  a  house  so  high." 

'*  Not  quite  safe,  my  dear  sir,  if  it  were  a  single  house  j 
but,"  added  he,  *'  in  a  row,  one  house  supports  another." 

"Thank  Heaven,"  thought  I,  "I  have  but  a  three-years' 
lease,  and  sixth  months  are  gone  already." 

But  the  annoyances  up  to  this  period  were  internal ;  we 
now  had  to  experience  the  external  nuisances  attending 
a  modern-built  house. 

"  No.  I  is  taken,  papa,  and  they  are  getting  the  furniture 
in,"  said  my  eldest  daughter  one  day ;  "  I  hope  we  shall 
have  nice  neighbours.     And  William  told  Mary  that  Mr 


270  OUa  Podrida 

Smithers  told  him,  when  he  met  him  in  the  street, 
that  he  was  now  going  to  fit  up  No.  3  as  fast  as  he 
could." 

The  report  was  true,  as  we  found  from  the  report  of 
the  carpenters'  hammers  for  the  next  three  or  four  weeks. 
"We  could  not  obtain  a  moment's  sleep  except  in  the  early 
part  of  the  night,  or  a  minute's  repose  to  our  ears  during 
the  day.  The  sound  appeared  as  if  it  was  in  our  house 
instead  of  next  door  ;  and  it  commenced  at  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  lasted  till  seven  in  the  evening.  I  was 
hammered  to  death  ;  and,  unfortunately,  there  was  a  con- 
stant succession  of  rain,  which  prevented  me  from  going 
out  to  avoid  it.  I  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  watch  my 
pictures,  as  they  jumped  from  the  wall  with  the  thumps 
of  the  hammers.  At  last  No.  3  was  floored,  wainscotted 
and  glazed,  and  we  had  a  week's  repose. 

By  this  time  No.  I  was  furnished,  and  the  parties  who 
had  taken  it  came  in.  They  were  a  gouty  old  gentleman, 
and  his  wife,  who,  report  said,  had  once  been  his  cook. 
My  daughters'  hopes  of  pleasant  neighbours  were  dis- 
appointed. Before  they  had  been  in  a  week,  we  found 
ourselves  at  issue  :  the  old  gentleman's  bed  was  close  to 
the  partition-wall,  and  in  the  dead  of  the  night  we  could 
distinctly  hear  his  groans,  and  also  his  execrations  and 
exclamations,  when  the  fit  came  on  him.  My  wife  and 
daughters  declared  that  it  was  quite  horrible,  and  that 
they  could  not  sleep  for  them. 

Upon  the  eighth  day  there  came  a  note : — 

"  Mrs    Whortleback's    compliments    to   Mr    and   Mrs 

,  and  begs  that  the  young  people  will  not  play  on 

the  piany,  as  Mr  Whortleback  is  very  ill  with  the  gout." 

Now,  my  daughters  were  proficients  on  the  piano,  and 
practised  a  great  deal.  This  note  was  anything  but 
satisfactory :  to  play  when  the  old  gentleman  was  ill  would 
be  barbarous, — not  to  play  was  to  deprive  ourselves  of  our 
greatest  pleasure. 

**  Oh  dear  !  how  very  disagreeable,"  cried  my  daughters. 

**  Yes,  my  dear  -,  but  if  we  can  hear  his  groans,  it's  no 


Modern  Town  Houses 


271 


wonder  that  he  can  hear  the  piano  and  harp  :  recollect  the 
wall  is  only  a  brick  and  a  half  thick." 

**  I  wonder  music  don't  soothe  him,"  observed  the 
eldest. 

Music  is  mockery  to  a  man  in  agony.  A  man  who  has 
been  broken  on  the  wheel  would  not  have  his  last  hours 
soothed  by  the  finest  orchestra.  After  a  week,  during 
which  we  sent  every  day  to  inquire  after  Mr  Whortleback's 
health,  we  ventured  to  resume  the  piano  and  harp  ;  upon 
which  the  old  gentleman  became  testy,  and  sent  for  a  man 
with  a  trumpet,  placing  him  in  the  balcony,  and  desiring 
him  to  play  as  much  out  of  tune  as  possible  whenever  the 
harp  and  piano  sounded  a  note.  Thus  were  we  at  open 
hostility  with  our  only  neighbour  ;  and,  as  we  were  certain 
if  my  daughters  touched  their  instruments,  to  have  the 
trumpet  blowing  discord  for  an  hour  or  two  either  that 
day  or  the  next,  at  last  the  piano  was  unopened,  and  the 
harp  remained  in  its  case.  Before  the^  year  closed,  No.  3 
became  tenanted  5  and  here  we  had  a  new  annoyance.  It 
was  occupied  by  a  large  family  j  and  there  were  four 
young  ladies  who  were  learning  music.  We  now  had  our 
annoyance :  it  was  strum,  strum,  all  day  long ;  one  sister 
up,  another  down  ;  and  every  one  knows  what  a  bore  the 
first  lessons  in  music  are  to  those  who  are  compelled  to 
hear  them.  They  could  just  manage  to  play  a  tune, 
and  that  eternal  tune  was  ringing  in  our  ears  from  morning 
to  night.  We  could  not  send  our  compliments,  or  blow  a 
trumpet.  We  were  forced  to  submit  to  it.  The  nursery 
also  being  against  the  partition-wall,  we  had  the  squalls 
and  noise  of  the  children  on  the  one  side,  added  to  groans 
and  execrations  of  the  old  gentleman  on  the  other. 

However,  custom  reconciled  us  to  everything,  and  the 
first  vexation  gradually  wore  off.  Yet  I  could  not  help 
observing  that  when  I  was  supposed  not  to  be  in  hearing, 
the  chief  conversation  of  my  wife,  when  her  friends  called 
upon  her,  consisted  of  a  description  of  all  the  nuisances 
and  annoyances  that  we  suffered  j  and  I  felt  assured  that 
she   and   my    daughters   were   as   anxious    to   return   to 


272  Olla  Podrida 

Brompton  Hall  as  I  was.  In  fact,  the  advantages  which 
they  had  anticipated  by  their  town  residence  were  not 
realised.  In  our  situation,  we  were  as  far  off  from  most 
of  our  friends,  and  still  farther  from  some  than  we  were 
before,  and  we  had  no  longer  the  same  amusements  to 
offer  them.  At  our  former  short  distance  from  town, 
access  was  more  easy  to  those  who  did  not  keep  a  carriage, 
that  is,  the  young  men  ;  and  those  were  the  parties  who, 
of  course,  my  wife  and  daughters  cared  for  most.  It  was 
very  agreeable  to  come  down  with  their  portmanteaus, — 
enjoy  the  fresh  air  and  green  lanes  of  the  country  for  an 
afternoon, — dine,  sleep,  and  breakfast,  and  return  the  next 
morning  by  conveyances  which  passed  us  every  quarter  of 

an  hour ;  but  to  dine  with  us  in square,  when  the 

expense  of  a  hackney-coach  there  and  back  was  no  trifle, 
and  to  return  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  was  not  at  all  agree- 
able. We  found  that  we  had  not  so  much  society,  nor 
were  we  half  so  much  courted,  as  at  Brompton  Hall.  This 
was  the  bitterest  blow  of  all,  and  my  wife  and  daughters 
would  look  out  of  the  windows  and  sigh ;  often  a  whole 
day  passed  without  one  friend  or  acquaintance  dropping  in 
to  relieve  its  monotony. 

We  continued  to  reside  there,  nevertheless,  for  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  that  the  three  years  would  be  well  spent 
if  they  cured  my  wife  and  daughters  of  their  town  mania ; 
and  although  anxious  as  I  am  sure  they  were  to  return,  I 
never  broached  the  matter,  for  I  was  determined  that  the 
cure  should  be  radical.  Nos.  4,  5>  ^j  7>  ^iid  8,  were 
finished  the  next  year,  and,  by  the  persuasions  of  Mr 
Smithers,  were  taken  by  different  parties  in  the  spring. 
And  now  we  had  another  nuisance.  Nothing  but  eternal 
rings  at  the  bell.  The  man-servant  grumbled,  and  was 
behind  with  his  work ;  and  when  scolded,  replied  that 
there  was  no  time  for  anything,  that  when  cleaning  his 
knives  and  plate  the  bell  was  rung,  and  he  was  obliged  to 
wash  himself,  throw  on  his  jacket,  and  go  up  to  answer 
the  front  door ;  that  the  bell  was  not  rung  for  us,  but  to 
find  out  where  some  new-comer  lived,  and  to  ascertain  this 


Modern  Town  Houses  273 

they  always  rang  at  the  house  which  appeared  the  longest 
inhabited.  There  was  no  end  to  the  ringing  for  some 
months,  and  we  had  three  servants  who  absolutely  refused 
to  stay  in  so  bad  a  place.  We  had  also  to  contend  with 
letters  and  notes  in  the  same  way,  brought  to  us  at  hap- 
hazard :  "  Does  Mr  So-and-so  live  here  ? " — "  No,  he  does 
not." — "  Then  pray  where  does  he  ?  "  This  was  inter- 
minable, and  not  five  minutes  in  the  day  passed  without 
the  door-bell  being  rung.  For  the  sake  of  not  changing 
my  servants  I  was  at  last  put  to  the  expense  of  an  extra 
boy  for  no  other  purpose  but  to  answer  the  constant 
applications  at  the  door.  At  last  we  had  remained  there 
for  two  years  and  nine  months,  and  then  my  wife  would 
occasionally  put  the  question  whether  I  intended  to  renew 
the  lease  ;  and  I  naturally  replied  that  I  did  not  like  change. 

Then  she  went  upon  another  tack ;  observed  that  Clara 
did  not  appear  well  for  some  time,  and  that  she  thought 
that  she  required  country  air  •,  but,  in  this,  I  did  not  choose 
to  agree  with  her. 

One  day  I  came  home,  and,  rubbing  my  hands  as  if 
pleased,  said,  ''Well,  at  last  I've  an  oiFer  for  Brompton 
Villa  for  a  term  of  seven  years, — a  very  fair  offer  and  good 
tenants, — so  that  will  now  be  off  my  hands." 

My  wife  looked  mortified,  and  my  daughters  held  down 
their  heads. 

"  Have  you  let  it,  papa  ? "  said  one  of  my  daughters, 
timidly. 

*'No,  not  yet  J  but  I  am  to  give  an  answer  to-morrow 
morning." 

'*  It  requires  consideration,  my  dear,"  replied  my  wife. 

*'  Requires  consideration  !  "  said  I.  *'  Why,  my  dear, 
the  parties  have  seen  the  house,  and  I  have  been  trying  to 
let  it  these  three  years.  I  recollect  when  I  took  this  house 
I  said  it  required  consideration,  but  you  would  not  allow 
any  such  thing." 

"  I'm  sure  I  wish  we  had,"  said  Clara. 

"  And  so  do  I." 

**  The  fact  is,  my  dear,"  said  my  wife,  coming  round  to 
o  s 


274  Olla  Podrida 

the  back  of  my  chair,  and  putting  her  arms  round  my  neck, 
"  we  all  wish  to  go  back  to  Brompton." 

"  Yes,  yes,  papa,"  added  my  daughters,  embracing  me 
on  each  side. 

"  You  will  allow,  then,  that  I  was  right  in  not  taking  a 
lease  for  more  than  three  years." 

"  Yes  :  how  lucky  you  were  so  positive  !  " 

**  Well,  then,  if  that  is  the  case,  we  will  unfurnish  this 
house,  and,  as  soon  as  you  please,  go  back  to  Brompton 
Hall." 

I  hardly  need  observe  that  we  took  possession  of  our  old 
abode  with  delight,  and  that  I  have  had  no  more  applica- 
tions for  a  change  of  residence,  or  have  again  heard  the 
phrase  that  we  were  living  "  out  of  the  world." 


The  Way  to  be  Happy 

Cut  your  coat  according  to  your  cloth,  is  an  old  maxim 
and  a  wise  one  j  and  if  people  will  only  square  their  ideas 
according  to  their  circumstances,  how  much  happier  might 
we  all  be  !  If  we  only  would  come  down  a  peg  or  two  in 
our  notions,  in  accordance  with  our  waning  fortunes, 
happiness  would  be  always  within  our  reach.  It  is  not 
what  we  have,  or  what  we  have  not,  which  adds  or  sub- 
tracts from  our  felicity.  It  is  the  longing  for  more  than 
we  have,  the  envying  of  those  who  possess  that  more,  and 
the  wish  to  appear  in  the  world  of  more  consequence 
than  we  really  are,  which  destroy  our  peace  of  mind,  and 
eventually  lead  to  ruin. 

I  never  witnessed  a  man  submitting  to  circumstances 
with  good  humour  and  good  sense,  so  remarkably  as  in 
my  friend  Alexander  Willemott.  When  I  first  met  him, 
since  our  school  days,  it  was  at  the  close  of  the  war :  he 
had  been  a  large  contractor  with  government  for  army 
clothing  and  accoutrements,  and  was  said  to  have  realised 
an  immense  fortune,  although  his  accounts  were  not  yet 
settled.  Indeed,  it  was  said  that  they  were  so  vast,  that 
it  would  employ  the  time  of  six  clerks  for  two  years,  to 
examine  them,  previous  to  the  balance  sheet  being  struck. 
As  I  observed,  he  had  been  at  school  with  me,  and,  on  my 
return  from  the  East  Indies,  I  called  upon  him  to  renew 
our  old  acquaintance,  and  congratulate  him  upon  his 
success. 

"  My  dear  Reynolds,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you.  You 
must  come  down  to  Be] em  Castle  ;  Mrs  Willemott  will 
receive  you  with  pleasure,  I'm  sure.  You  shall  see  my 
two  girls." 

27s 


276  Olla  Podrida 

I  consented.  The  chaise  stopped  at  a  splendid  mansion^ 
and  I  was  ushered  in  by  a  crowd  of  liveried  servants. 
Everything  was  on  the  most  sumptuous  and  magnificent 
scale.  Having  paid  my  respects  to  the  lady  of  the  house, 
I  retired  to  dress,  as  dinner  was  nearly  ready,  it  being 
then  half-past  seven  o'clock.  It  was  eight  before  we  sat 
down.  To  an  observation  that  I  made,  expressing  a  hope 
that  I  had  not  occasioned  the  dinner  being  put  oif,  Wille- 
mott  replied,  "  On  the  contrary,  my  dear  Reynolds,  we 
never  sit  down  until  about  this  hour.  How  people  can 
dine  at  four  or  five  o'clock,  I  cannot  conceive.  I  could 
not  touch  a  mouthful." 

The  dinner  was  excellent,  and  I  paid  it  the  encomiums 
which  were  its  due. 

"Do  not  be  afraid,  my  dear  fellow — my  cook  is  an 
artiste  extraordinaire — a  regular  Cordon  Bleu.  You  may  eat 
anything  without  fear  of  indigestion.  How  people  can 
live  upon  the  English  cookery  of  the  present  day,  I  can- 
not conceive.  I  seldom  dine  out,  for  fear  of  being  poisoned. 
Depend  upon  it,  a  good  cook  lengthens  your  days,  and  no 
price  is  too  great  to  insure  one." 

When  the  ladies  retired,  being  alone,  we  entered  into 
friendly  conversation.  I  expressed  my  admiration  of  his 
daughters,  who  certainly  were  very  handsome  and  elegant 
girls. 

"  Very  true ;  they  are  more  than  passable,"  replied  he. 
"We  have  had  many  offers,  but  not  such  as  come  up  to 
my  expectations.  Baronets  are  cheap  now-a-days,  and 
Irish  lords  are  nothings ;  I  hope  to  settle  them  comfortably. 
We  shall  see.  Try  this  claret ;  you  will  find  it  excellent, 
not  a  headache  in  a  hogshead  of  it.  How  people  can 
drink  port,  I  cannot  imagine." 

The  next  morning  he  proposed  that  I  should  rattle 
round  the  park  with  him.  I  acceded,  and  we  set  off  in  a 
handsome  open  carriage,  with  four  greys,  ridden  by  pos- 
tilions at  a  rapid  pace.  As  we  were  whirling  along,  he 
observed,  "  In  town  we  must  of  course  drive  but  a 
pair,  but    in    the    country  I  never  go  out    without    four 


The  Way  to  be  Happy  277 

horses.  There  is  a  spring  in  four  horses  which  is  delight- 
ful; it  makes  your  spirits  elastic,  and  you  feel  that  the 
poor  animals  are  not  at  hard  labour.  Rather  than  not 
drive  four,  I  would  prefer  to  stay  at  home." 

Our  ride  was  very  pleasant,  and  in  such  amusements 
passed  away  one  of  the  most  pleasant  weeks  that  I  ever 
remembered.  Willemott  was  not  the  least  altered — he 
was  as  friendly,  as  sincere,  as  open-hearted,  as  when  a 
boy  at  school.  I  left  him,  pleased  with  his  prosperity, 
and  acknowledging  that  he  was  well  deserving  of  it, 
although  his  ideas  had  assumed  such  a  scale  of  magnificence. 

I  went  to  India  when  my  leave  expired,  and  was  absent 
about  four  years.  On  my  return,  I  inquired  after  my 
friend  "Willemott,  and  was  told,  that  his  circumstances 
and  expectations  had  been  greatly  altered.  From  many 
causes,  such  as  a  change  in  the  government,  a  demand 
for  economy,  and  the  wording  of  his  contracts  having 
been  differently  rendered  from  what  Willemott  had 
supposed  their  meaning  to  be,  large  items  had  been 
struck  out  of  his  balance  sheet,  and,  instead  of  being  a 
millionaire,  he  was  now  a  gentleman  with  a  handsome 
property.  Belem  Castle  had  been  sold,  and  he  now 
lived  at  Richmond,  as  hospitable  as  ever,  and  was 
considered  a  great  addition  to  the  neighbourhood.  I 
took  the  earliest  opportunity  of  going  down  to  see  him. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Reynolds,  this  is  really  kind  of  you  to 
come  without  invitation.  Your  room  is  ready,  and  bed 
well  aired,  for  it  was  slept  in  three  nights  ago.  Come — 
Mrs  Willemott  will  be  delighted  to  see  you." 

I  found  the  girls  still  unmarried,  but  they  were  yet 
young.  The  whole  family  appeared  as  contented  and 
happy,  and  as  friendly,  as  before.  We  sat  down  to 
dinner  at  six  o'clock;  the  footman  and  the  coachman 
attended.  The  dinner  was  good,  but  not  by  the  artiste 
extraordinaire,     I  praised  everything. 

**  Yes,"  replied  he,  "she  is  a  very  good  cook;  she 
unites  the  solidity  of  the  English  with  the  delicacy  of 
the  French  fare ;  and,  altogether,  I  think  it  a  decided  im- 


278  011a  Podrida 

provernent,  Jane  is  quite  a  treasure."  After  dinner,  he 
observed,  **  Of  course  you  know  I  have  sold  Belem  Castle, 
and  reduced  my  establishment.  Government  have  not 
treated  me  fairly,  but  I  am  at  the  mercy  of  commissioners, 
and  a  body  of  men  will  do  that  which,  as  individuals, 
they  would  be  ashamed  of.  The  fact  is,  the  odium  is 
borne  by  no  one  in  particular,  and  it  is  only  the  sense 
of  shame  which  keeps  us  honest,  I  am  afraid.  However, 
here  you  see  me,  with  a  comfortable  fortune,  and  always 
happy  to  see  my  friends,  especially  my  old  school-fellow. 
Will  you  take  port  or  claret ;  the  port  is  very  fine,  and 
so  is  the  claret.  By-the-bye,  do  you  know — I'll  let  you 
into  a  family  secret ;  Louisa  is  to  be  married  to  a  Colonel 
Wilier — an  excellent  match !     It  has  made  us  all  happy." 

The  next  day  we  drove  out,  not  in  a  open  carriage 
as  before,  but  in  a  chariot  and  with  2.  pair  of  horses, 

"  These  are  handsome  horses,"  observed  I. — "  Yes," 
replied  he,  "  I  am  fond  of  good  horses  ;  and,  as  I  only 
keep  a  pair,  I  have  the  best.  There  is  a  certain  degree 
of  pretension  in  four  horses,  I  do  not  much  like  —  it 
appears  as  if  you  wished  to  overtop  your  neighbours." 

I  spent  a  few  very  pleasant  days,  and  then  quitted  his 
hospitable  roof.  A  severe  cold,  caught  that  winter,  in- 
duced me  to  take  the  advice  of  the  physicians,  and  proceed 
to  the  South  of  France,  where  I  remained  two  years.  On 
my  return,  I  was  informed  that  Willemott  had  speculated, 
and  had  been  unlucky  on  the  Stock  Exchange ;  that  he 
had  left  Richmond,  and  was  now  living  at  Clapham. 
The  next  day  I  met  him  near  the  Exchange. 

**  Reynolds,  I  am  happy  to  see  you.  Thompson  told 
me  that  you  had  come  back.  If  not  better  engaged, 
come  down  to  see  me ;  I  will  drive  you  down  at  four 
o'clock,  if  that  will  suit." 

It  suited  me  very  well,  and,  at  four  o'clock,  I  met  him 
according  to  appointment  at  a  livery  stables  over  the  Iron 
Bridge.  His  vehicle  was  ordered  out,  it  was  a  phaeton 
drawn  by  two  longed-tailed  ponies — altogether  a  very 
neat  concern.     We  set  off  at  a  rapid  pace. 


The  Way  to  be  Happy  279 

**  They  step  out  well,  don't  they  ?  "We  shall  be  down 
in  plenty  of  time  to  put  on  a  pair  of  shoes  by  five  o'clock, 
which  is  our  dinner-time.  Late  dinners  don't  agree  with 
me — they  produce  indigestion.  Of  course,  you  know 
that  Louisa  has  a  little  boy." 

I  did  not ;  but  congratulated  him. 

"  Yes,  and  has  now  gone  out  to  India  with  her  husband. 
Mary  is  also  engaged  to  be  married — a  very  good  match — 
a  Mr  Rivers,  in  the  law.  He  has  been  called  to  the 
bar  this  year,  and  promises  well.  They  will  be  a  little 
pinched  at  first,  but  we  must  see  what  we  can  do  for 
them." 

We  stopped  at  a  neat  row  of  houses,  I  forget  the  name, 
and,  as  we  drove  up,  the  servant,  the  only  man-servant, 
came  out,  and  took  the  ponies  round  to  the  stable,  while 
the  maid  received  my  luggage,  and  one  or  two  paper-bags, 
containing  a  few  extras  for  the  occasion.  I  was  met  with 
the  same  warmth  as  usual  by  Mrs  Willemott.  The  house 
was  small,  but  very  neat ;  the  remnants  of  former  grandeur 
appeared  here  and  there,  in  one  or  two  little  articles, 
favourites  of  the  lady.  We  sat  down  at  five  o'clock  to 
a  plain  dinner,  and  were  attended  by  the  footman,  who 
had  rubbed  down  the  ponies  and  pulled  on  his  livery. 

"  A  good  plain  cook  is  the  best  thing,  after  all," 
observed  Willemott.  **  Your  fine  cooks  won't  condescend 
to  roast  and  boil.  "Will  you  take  some  of  this  sirloin,  the 
under-cut  is  excellent.  My  dear,  give  Mr  Reynolds  some 
Yorkshire  pudding." 

"When  we  were  left  alone  after  dinner,  Willemott  told 
me,  very  unconcernedly,  of  his  losses. 

**  It  was  my  own  fault,"  said  he  j  "I  wished  to  make 
up  a  little  sum  for  the  girls,  and  risking  what  they  would 
have  had,  I  left  them  almost  penniless.  However,  we 
can  always  command  a  bottle  of  port  and  a  beef-steak, 
and  nvhat  more  in  this  world  can  you  have  ?  Will  you 
take  port  or  white  ? — I  have  no  claret  to  ofier  you." 

We  finished  our  port,  but  I  could  perceive  no  difi^erence 
in  Willemott.     He  was  just  as  happy  and  as  cheerful  as 


28o  Oila  Podrida 

ever.  He  drove  me  to  town  the  next  day.  During  our 
drive,  he  observed,  '*I  like  ponies,  they  are  so  little 
trouble  ;  and  I  prefer  them  to  driving  one  horse  in  this 
vehicle,  as  I  can  put  my  wife  and  daughters  into  it.  It's 
selfish  to  keep  a  carriage  for  yourself  alone,  and  one 
horse  in  a  four-wheeled  double  chaise  appears  like  an 
imposition  upon  the  poor  animal." 

I  went  to  Scotland,  and  remained  about  a  year.  On 
my  return,  I  found  that  my  friend  Willemott  had  again 
shifted  his  quarters.  He  was  at  Brighton;  and  having 
nothing  better  to  do,  I  put  myself  in  the  **  Times,"  and 
arrived  at  the  Bedford  Hotel.  It  was  not  until  after 
some  inquiry,  that  I  could  find  out  his  address.  At  last 
I  obtained  it,  in  a  respectable  but  not  fashionable  part 
of  this  overgrown  town.  Willemott  received  me  just  as 
before. 

**  I  have  no  spare  bed  to  offer  you,  but  you  must  break- 
fast and  dine  with  us  every  day.  Our  house  is  small, 
but  it's  very  comfortable,  and  Brighton  is  a  very  convenient 
place.  You  know  Mary  is  married.  A  good  place  in 
the  courts  was  for  sale,  and  my  wife  and  I  agreed  to 
purchase  it  for  Rivers.  It  has  reduced  us  a  little,  but 
they  are  very  comfortable.  I  have  retired  from  business 
altogether  -,  in  fact,  as  my  daughters  are  both  married, 
and  we  have  enough  to  live  upon,  what  can  we  wish  for 
more  ?  Brighton  is  very  gay  and  always  healthy ;  and, 
as  for  carriages  and  horses,  they  are  no  use  here — there 
2XQJlies  at  every  corner  of  the  streets." 

I  accepted  his  invitation  to  dinner.  A  parlour-maid 
waited,  but  everything,  although  very  plain,  was  clean 
and  comfortable. 

"  I  have  still  a  bottle  of  wine  for  a  friend,  Reynolds," 
said  Willemott,  after  dinner,  "but,  for  my  part,  I  prefer 
nvhisky-toddy — it  agrees  with  me  better.  Here's  to  the 
health  of  my  two  girls,  God  bless  them,  and  success  to 
them  in  life  !  " 

'<My  dear  Willemott,"  said  I,  **I  take  the  liberty  of 
an  old  friend,  but  I  am  so  astonished  at  your  philosophy. 


The  Way  to  be  Happy  281 

that  I  cannot  help  it.  When  I  call  to  mind  Belem  Castle, 
your  large  establishment,  your  luxuries,  your  French 
cook,  and  your  stud  of  cattle,  I  wonder  at  your  contented 
state  of  mind  under  such  a  change  of  circumstances." 

"I  almost  wonder  myself,  my  dear  fellow,"  replied  he. 
**  I  never  could  have  believed,  at  that  time,  that  I  could 
live  happily  under  such  a  change  of  circumstances  ;  but 
the  fact  is,  that,  although  I  have  been  a  contractor,  I 
have  a  good  conscience ;  then,  my  wife  is  an  excellent 
woman,  and  provided  she  sees  me  and  her  daughters 
happy,  thinks  nothing  about  herself;  and,  further,  I 
have  made  it  a  rule  as  I  have  been  going  down  hill,  to 
find  reasons  why  I  should  be  thankful,  and  not  dis- 
contented. Depend  upon  it,  Reynolds,  it  is  not  a  loss 
of  fortune  which  will  affect  your  happiness,  as  long  as 
you  have  peace  and  love  at  home." 

I  took  my  leave  of  Willemott  and  his  wife,  with  respect 
as  well  as  regard ;  convinced  that  there  was  no  pretended 
indifference  to  worldly  advantages ;  that  it  was  not,  that 
the  grapes  were  sour,  but  that  he  had  learned  the  whole 
art  of  happiness,  by  being  contented  with  what  he  had, 
and  by  **  cutting  his  coat  according  to  his  cloth." 


The  Legend  of  the  Bell  Rock 

There  was  a  grand  procession  through  the  streets  of  the 
two  towns  of  Perth  and  of  Dundee.  The  holy  abbots,  in 
their  robes,  walked  under  gilded  canopies,  the  monks 
chanted,  the  censers  were  thrown,  flags  and  banners  were 
carried  by  seamen,  lighted  tapers  by  penitents  ;  St  Antonio, 
the  patron  of  those  who  trust  to  the  stormy  ocean,  was 
carried  in  all  pomp  through  the  streets ;  and,  as  the 
procession  passed,  coins  of  various  value  were  thrown 
down  by  those  who  watched  it  from  the  windows,  and,  as 
fast  as  thrown,  were  collected  by  little  boys  dressed  as 
angels,  and  holding  silver  vessels  to  receive  the  largesses. 
During  the  whole  day  did  the  procession  continue,  and 
large  was  the  treasure  collected  in  the  two  towns.  Every- 
one gave  freely,  for  there  were  few,  indeed  none,  who,  if 
not  in  their  own  circle,  at  least  among  their  acquaintances, 
had  not  to  deplore  the  loss  of  some  one  dear  to  them,  or  to 
those  they  visited,  from  the  dangerous  rock  which  lay  in 
the  very  track  of  all  the  vessels  entering  the  Frith  of 
Tay. 

These  processions  had  been  arranged,  that  a  sufficient 
sum  of  money  might  be  collected  to  enable  them  to  put  in 
execution  a  plan  proposed  by  an  adventurous  and  bold 
young  seaman,  in  a  council  held  for  the  purpose,  of  fixing 
a  bell  on  the  rock,  which  could  be  so  arranged  that  the 
slightest  breath  of  wind  would  cause  the  hammer  of  it  to 
sound,  and  thus,  by  its  tolling,  warn  the  mariner  of  his 
danger ;  and  the  sums  given  were  more  than  sufficient. 
A  meeting  was  then  held,  and  it  was  unanimously  agreed 
that  Andrew  M'Clise  should  be  charged  with  the  com- 
mission to  go  over  to  Amsterdam,  and  purchase  the  bell  of 
282 


The  Legend  of  the  Bell  Rock  283 

a  merchant  residing  there,  whom  Andrew  stated  to  have 
one  in  his  possession,  which,  from  its  fine  tone  and  size, 
was  exactly  calculated  for  the  purport  to  which  it  was  to 
be  appropriated. 

Andrew  M'Clise  embarked  with  the  money,  and  made  a 
prosperous  voyage.  He  had  often  been  at  Amsterdam, 
and  had  hved  with  the  merchant,  whose  name  was  Van- 
dermaclin  ;  and  the  attention  to  his  affairs,  the  dexterity 
and  the  rapidity  of  the  movements  of  Andrew  M'Clise,  had 
often  elicited  the  warmest  encomiums  of  Mynheer  Vander- 
maclin  j  and  many  evenings  had  Andrew  M'Clise  passed 
with  him,  drinking  in  moderation  their  favourite  scheedam, 
and  indulging  in  the  meditative  meerschaum.  Vandermaclin 
had  often  wished  that  he  had  a  son  like  Andrew  M'Clise, 
to  whom  he  could  leave  his  property,  with  the  full  assur- 
ance that  the  heap  would  not  be  scattered,  but  greatly 
added  to. 

Vandermaclin  was  a  widower.  He  had  but  one  daugh- 
ter, who  was  now  just  arrived  at  an  age  to  return  from  the 
pension  to  her  father's  house,  and  take  upon  herself  the 
domestic  duties.  M'CHse  had  never  yet  seen  the  beautiful 
Katerina. 

"  And  so.  Mynheer  M'Clise,"  said  Vandermaclin,  who 
was  sitting  in  the  warehouse  on  the  ground-floor  of  his 
tenement,  "  you  come  to  purchase  the  famous  bell  of 
Utrecht ;  with  the  intention  of  fixing  it  upon  that  rock, 
the  danger  of  which  we  have  so  often  talked  over  after  the 
work  of  the  day  has  been  done  ?  I,  too,  have  suffered 
from  that  same  rock,  as  you  well  know ;  but  still  I  have 
been  fortunate.  The  price  will  be  heavy ;  and  so  it  ought 
to  be,  for  the  bell  itself  is  of  no  small  weight." 

"We  are  prepared  to  pay  it,  Mynheer  Vandermaclin." 

"  Nevertheless,  in  so  good  a  cause,  and  for  so  good  a 
purport,  you  shall  not  be  overcharged.  I  will  say  nothing 
of  the  beauty  of  the  workmanship,  or  even  of  the  mere 
manufacture.  You  shall  pay  but  its  value  in  metal ;  the 
same  price  which  the  Jew  Isaacs  offered  me  for  it  but  four 
months  ago.     I  will  not  ask  what  a  Jew  would  ask,  but 


284  Olla  Podrida 

what  a  Jew  would  give,  which  makes  no  small  difference. 
Have  you  ten  thousand  guilders  ? " 

**  I  have,  and  more." 

"  That  is  my  price.  Mynheer  M'Clise,  and  I  wish  for  no 
more  5  for  I,  too,  will  contribute  my  share  to  the  good 
work.     Are  you  content,  and  is  it  a  bargain  ?  " 

"  It  is ;  and  the  holy  abbots  will  thank  you  on  vellum, 
Mynheer  Vandermaclin,  for  your  generosity." 

**  I  prefer  the  thanks  of  the  bold  seamen  to  those  of  the 
idle  churchmen ;  but  never  mind,  it  is  a  bargain.  Now, 
we  will  go  in ;  it  is  time  to  close  the  doors.  We  will  take 
our  pipes,  and  you  shall  make  the  acquaintance  of  my  fair 
daughter,  Katerina." 

At  the  time  we  are  speaking  of,  M'Clise  was  about  six- 
and-twenty  years  of  age ;  he  was  above  the  middle  size, 
elegant  in  person,  and  with  a  frankness  and  almost  nobility 
in  his  countenance,  which  won  all  who  saw  him. 

His  manners  were  like  those  of  most  seamen,  bold,  but 
not  offensively  so.  His  eye  was  piercing  as  an  eagle's, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  his  very  soul  spoke  from  it.  At  the 
very  first  meeting  between  him  and  the  daughter  of 
Vandermaclin,  it  appeared  to  both  as  if  their  destinies  were 
to  unite  them. 

They  loved  not  as  others  love,  but  with  an  intensity 
which  it  would  be  impossible  to  portray  ;  but  they  hardly 
exchanged  a  word.  Again  and  again  they  met ;  their  eyes 
spoke,  but  nothing  more.  The  bell  was  put  on  board  the 
vessel,  the  money  had  been  paid  down,  and  M'Clise  could 
no  longer  delay.  He  felt  as  if  his  heartstrings  were 
severed  as  he  tore  himself  away  from  the  land  where  all 
remained  that  he  coveted  upon  earth.  And  Katerina,  she 
too  felt  as  if  her  existence  was  a  blank ;  and,  as  the  vessel 
sailed  from  the  port,  she  breathed  short ;  and  when  not 
even  her  white  and  lofty  top-gallant  sail  could  be  discovered 
as  a  speck,  she  threw  herself  on  her  couch  and  wept.  And 
M'Clise  as  he  sailed  away,  remained  for  hours  leaning  his 
cheek  on  his  hand,  thinking  of,  over  and  over  again,  every 
lineament  and  feature  of  the  peerless  Katerina. 


The  Legend  of  the  Bell  Rock  285 

The  months  passed  away,  during  which  M'Clise  was 
busied  every  ebb  of  the  tide  in  superintending  the  work 
on  the  rock.  At  last,  all  was  ready  ;  and  once  more  was 
to  be  beheld  a  gay  procession  ;  but  this  time  it  was  on  the 
water.  It  was  on  a  calm  and  lovely  summer's  morn,  that 
the  abbots  and  the  monks,  attended  by  a  large  company  of 
the  authorities,  and  others,  who  were  so  much  interested 
in  the  work  in  hand,  started  from  the  shore  of  Aberbroth- 
wick  in  a  long  line  of  boats,  decorated  with  sacred  and 
with  other  various  banners  and  devices.  The  music 
floated  along  the  water,  and  the  solemn  chants  of  the 
monks  were  for  once  heard  where  never  yet  they  had  been 
heard  before,  or  ever  will  again.  M'Clise  was  at  the  rock, 
in  a  small  vessel  purposely  constructed  to  carry  the  bell, 
and  with  sheers  to  hang  it  on  the  supports  imbedded  in 
the  solid  rock.  The  bell  was  in  its  place,  and  the  abbot 
blessed  the  bell ;  and  holy  water  was  sprinkled  on  the 
metal,  which  was  for  the  future  to  be  lashed  by  the  waves 
of  the  salt  sea.  And  the  music  and  the  chants  were 
renewed  ;  and  as  they  continued,  the  wind  gradually  rose, 
and  with  the  rising  of  the  wind  the  bell  tolled  loud  and 
deep.  The  tolling  of  the  bell  was  the  signal  for  return, 
for  it  was  a  warning  that  the  weather  was  about  to  change, 
and  the  procession  pulled  back  to  Aberbrothwick,  and 
landed  in  good  time  ;  for  in  one  hour  more,  and  the  rocky 
coast  was  again  lashed  by  the  waves,  and  the  bell  tolled 
loud  and  quick,  although  there  were  none  there  but  the 
sea-gull,  who  screamed  with  fright  as  he  wheeled  in  the 
air  at  this  unusual  noise  upon  the  rock,  which,  at  the  ebb, 
he  had  so  often  made  his  resting-place. 

M'Clise  had  done  his  work  ;  the  bell  was  fixed ;  and 
once  more  he  hastened  with  his  vessel  to  Amsterdam. 
Once  more  was  he  an  inmate  of  Vandermaclin's  house  ; 
once  more  in  the  presence  of  the  idol  of  his  soul.  This 
time  they  spoke ;  this  time  their  vows  were  exchanged  for 
life  and  death.  But  Vandermaclin  saw  not  the  state  of 
their  hearts.  He  looked  upon  the  young  seaman  as  too 
low,  too  poor,  to  be  a  match  for  his  daughter ,  and  as  such 


286  Olla  Podrida 

an  idea  never  entered  his  head,  so  did  he  never  imagine  that 
he  would  have  dared  to  love.  But  he  was  soon  undeceived ; 
for  M*Clise  frankly  stated  his  attachment,  and  demanded 
the  hand  of  Katerina ;  and,  at  the  demand,  Vandermaclin's 
face  was  flushed  with  anger. 

"  Mynheer  M*Clise,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  as  if  to  con- 
trol his  feelings;  "when  a  man  marries,  he  is  bound  to 
show  that  he  has  wherewithal  to  support  his  wife  ;  to 
support  her  in  that  rank,  and  to  afford  her  those  luxuries 
to  which  she  has  been  accustomed  in  her  father's  house. 
Show  me  that  you  can  do  so,  and  I  will  not  refuse  you  the 
hand  of  Katerina." 

"  As  yet,  I  have  not,"  replied  M'Clise  j  "  but  I  am  young 
and  can  work  ;  I  have  money,  and  will  gain  more.  Tell 
me  what  sum  do  you  think  that  I  should  possess  to  warrant 
my  demanding  the  hand  of  your  daughter  ? " 

"Produce  twelve  thousand  guilders,  and  she  is  yours," 
replied  the  merchant. 

"  I  have  but  three  thousand,"  replied  M^Clise. 

"  Then,  think  no  more  of  Katerina.  It  is  a  foolish 
passion,  and  you  must  forget  it.  And,  Mynheer  M'Clise, 
I  must  not  have  my  daughter's  affections  tampered  with. 
She  must  forget  you ;  and  that  can  only  be  effected  by 
your  not  meeting  again.  I  wish  you  well.  Mynheer 
M*Clise,  but  I  must  request  your  absence." 

M'Clise  departed  from  the  presence  of  the  merchant, 
bowed  down  with  grief  and  disappointment.  He  contrived 
that  a  letter,  containing  the  result  of  his  application,  should 
be  put  in  the  hands  of  Katerina.  But  Vandermaclin  was 
informed  of  this  breach  of  observance,  and  Katerina  was 
sent  to  a  convent,  there  to  remain  until  the  departure  of  her 
lover  ;  and  Vandermaclin  wrote  to  his  correspondent  at 
Dundee,  requesting  that  the  goods  forwarded  to  him  might 
not  be  sent  by  the  vessel  commanded  by  M*Clise. 

Of  this  our  young  captain  received  information.  All 
hope  was  nearly  gone ;  still  he  lingered,  and  delayed  his 
departure.  He  was  no  longer  the  active,  energetic  sea- 
man j  he  neglected  all,  even  his  attire. 


The  Legend  of  the  Bell  Rock  287 

M*Clise  knew  in  which  convent  his  fair  Katerina  had 
been  immured ;  and  often  would  he  walk  round  its  pre- 
cincts, with  the  hope  of  seeing  her,  if  it  were  but  for  a 
moment,  but  in  vain.  His  vessel  was  now  laden,  and  he 
could  delay  no  longer.  He  was  to  sail  the  next  morning ; 
and  once  more  did  the  unhappy  young  man  take  his  usual 
walk  to  look  at  those  walls  which  contained  all  that  was 
dear  to  him  on  earth.  His  reverie  was  broken  by  a  stone 
falling  down  to  his  feet ;  he  took  it  up  *,  there  was  a  small 
piece  of  paper  attached  to  it  with  a  silken  thread.  He 
opened  it ;  it  was  the  handwriting  of  Katerina,  and  con- 
tained but  two  words — "  The  Bell^ 

The  bell !  M^Clise  started ;  for  he  immediately  com- 
prehended what  was  meant.  The  whole  plan  came  like 
electricity  through  his  brain.  Yes ;  then  there  was  a 
promise  of  happiness.  The  bell  was  worth  ten  thousand 
guilders  ;  that  sum  had  been  offered,  and  would  now  be 
given  by  Isaacs  the  Jew.  He  would  be  happy  with  his 
Katerina ;  and  he  blessed  her  ingenuity  for  devising  the 
means.  For  a  minute  or  two  he  was  transported ;  but  the 
re-action  soon  took  place.  "What  was  he  about  to  attempt  ? 
sacrilege — cruelty.  The  bell  had  been  blessed  by  the  holy 
church ;  it  had  been  purchased  by  holy  and  devout  alms. 
It  had  been  placed  on  the  rock  to  save  the  lives  of  his 
brother  seamen ;  and  were  he  to  remove  it,  would  he  not 
be  responsible  for  all  the  lives  lost  ?  Would  not  the  wail 
of  the  widow,  and  the  tears  of  the  orphan,  be  crying  out 
to  Heaven  against  him  ?  No,  no  !  never  !  The  crime  was 
too  horrible  j  and  M^Clise  stam.ped  upon  the  paper,  think- 
ing he  was  tempted  by  Satan  in  the  shape  of  a  woman  ;  but 
when  woman  tempts,  man  is  lost.  He  recalled  the  charms 
of  Katerina  ;  all  his  repugnance  was  overcome  ;  and  he 
resolved  that  the  deed  should  be  accomplished,  and  that 
Katerina  should  be  gained,  even  if  he  lost  his  soul. 

Andrew  M'Clise  sailed  away  from  Amsterdam,  and 
Katerina  recovered  her  liberty.  Vandermaclin  was  anxious 
that  she  should  marry :  and  many  were  the  suitors  for  her 
hand,  but  in  vain.     She  reminded  her  father,  that  he  had 


288  011a  Podrida 

pledged  himself,  if  M*Clise  counted  down  twelve  thousand 
guilders,  that  she  should  be  his  wife ;  and  to  that  pledge, 
she  insisted  that  he  was  bound  fast.  And  Vandermaclin 
after  reasoning  with  her,  and  pointing  out  to  her  that 
twelve  thousand  guilders  was  a  sum  so  large,  that  M'Ciise 
might  not  procure  until  his  old  age,  even  if  he  were 
fortunate,  acknowledged  that  such  was  his  promise,  and 
that  he  would,  like  an  honest  man,  abide  by  it,  provided 
that  M^Clise  should  fulfil  his  part  of  the  agreement  in  the 
space  of  two  years  ;  after  which  he  should  delay  her  settle- 
ment no  longer.  And  Katerina  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven, 
and  whispered,  as  she  clasped  her  hands,  "  The  Bell." 
Alas  !  that  we  should  invoke  Heaven  when  we  would  wish 
to  do  wrong  ;  but  mortals  are  blind,  and  none  so  blind  as 
those  who  are  impelled  by  passion. 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  that  year  that  M^Clise  had 
made  his  arrangements  :  having  procured  the  assistance 
of  some  lawless  hands,  he  had  taken  the  advantage  of  a 
smooth  and  glassy  sea  and  a  high  tide  to  remove  the  bell 
on  board  his  own  vessel;  a  work  of  little  difficulty  to 
him,  as  he  had  placed  it  there,  and  knew  well  the 
fastenings.  He  sailed  away  for  Amsterdam,  and  was 
permitted  by  Heaven  to  arrive  safe  with  his  sacrilegious 
freight.  He  did  not,  as  before,  enter  the  canal  opposite 
to  the  house  of  Vandermaclin,  but  one  that  ran  behind 
the  habitation  of  the  Jew  Isaacs.  At  night,  he  went  into 
the  house,  and  reported  to  the  Jew  what  he  had  for  sale ; 
and  the  keen  grey  eyes  of  the  bent-double  little  Israelite 
sparkled  with  delight,  for  he  knew  that  his  profit  would 
be  great.  At  midnight  the  bell  was  made  fast  to  the 
crane,  and  safely  deposited  in  the  warehouse  of  the  Jew, 
who  counted  out  the  ten  thousand  guilders  to  the  enrap- 
tured M'Clise,  whose  thoughts  were  wholly  upon  the 
possession  of  his  Katerina,  and  not  upon  the  crime  he 
had  committed. 

But,  alas !  to  conceal  one  crime,  we  are  too  often 
obliged  to  be  guilty  of  even  deeper  ;  and  thus  it  was  with 
Andrew  M'Clise.     The   people  who  had  assisted,   upon 


The  Legend  of  the  Bell  Rock  289 

the  promise  of  a  thousand  guilders  being  divided  among 
them,  now  murmured  at  their  share,  and  insisted  upon 
an  equal  division  of  the  spoils,  or  threatened  with  an 
immediate  confession  of  the  black  deed. 

M'Clise  raved,  and  cursed,  and  tore  his  hair  ;  promised 
to  give  them  the  money  as  soon  as  he  had  wedded 
Katerina  ;  but  they  would  not  consent.  Again  the  devil 
came  to  his  assistance,  and  whispered  how  he  was  to  act : 
he  consented.  The  next  night  the  division  was  to  be 
made.  They  met  in  his  cabin ;  he  gave  them  wine,  and 
they  drank  plentifully  *,  but  the  wine  was  poisoned,  and 
they  all  died  before  the  morning.  M^Clise  tied  weights  to 
their  bodies,  and  sunk  them  in  the  deep  canal ;  broke 
open  his  hatches,  to  make  it  appear  that  his  vessel  had 
been  plundered ;  and  then  went  to  the  authorities 
denouncing  his  crew  as  having  plundered  him,  and  escaped. 
Immediate  search  was  made,  but  they  were  not  to  be 
found ;  and  it  was  supposed  that  they  had  escaped  in  a 
boat. 

Once  more  M'Clise,  whose  conscience  was  seared,  went 
to  the  house  of  Vandermaclin,  counted  down  his  twelve 
thousand  guilders,  and  claimed  his  bride ;  and  Vander- 
maclin, who  felt  that  his  daughter's  happiness  was  at 
stake,  now  gave  his  consent.  As  M'Clise  stated  that 
he  was  anxious  to  return  to  England,  and  arrange  with 
the  merchants  whose  goods  had  been  plundered,  in  a  few 
days  the  marriage  took  place ;  and  Katerina  clasped  the 
murderer  in  her  arms.  All  was  apparent  joy  and  revelry ; 
but  there  was  anguish  in  the  heart  of  M*Clise,  who,  now 
that  he  had  gained  his  object,  felt  that  it  had  cost  him 
much  too  dear,  for  his  peace  of  mind  was  gone  for  ever. 
But  Katerina  cared  not ;  every  spark  of  feeling  was 
absorbed  in  her  passion,  and  the  very  guilt  of  M'Clise 
but  rendered  him  more  dear ;  for  was  it  not  for  her  that 
he  had  done  all  this  ?  M'Clise  received  her  portion,  and 
hasted  to  sail  away ;  for  the  bodies  were  still  in  the  canal, 
and  he  trembled  every  hour  lest  his  crime  should  be 
discovered.       And   Vandermaclin    bade    farewell   to   his 


290  Olla  Podrida 

daughter :  and,  he  knew  not  why,  but  there  was  a 
feeling  he  could  not  suppress,  that  they  never  should 
meet  again. 

"  Down — down  below,  Katerina  I  this  is  no  place  for 
you,"  cried  Mr  M'Clise,  as  he  stood  at  the  helm  of  the 
vessel.  "  Down,  dearest,  down,  or  you  will  be  washed 
overboard.  Every  sea  threatens  to  pour  into  our  decks  ; 
already  have  we  lost  two  men.  Down,  Katerina !  down, 
I  tell  you." 

"  I  fear  not ;  let  me  remain  with  you." 

**  I  tell  you,  down,"  cried  M'Clise  in  wrath ;  and 
Katerina  cast  upon  him  a  reproachful  look,  and  obeyed. 

The  storm  was  at  its  height ;  the  sun  had  set,  black 
and  monstrous  billows  chased  each  other,  and  the  dis- 
masted vessel  was  hurried  on  towards  the  land.  The 
wind  howled,  and  whistled  sharply  at  each  chink  in  the 
bulwarks  of  the  vessel.  For  three  days  had  they  fought 
the  gale,  but  in  vain.  Now,  if  it  continued,  all  chance 
was  over ;  for  the  shore  was  on  their  lee,  distant  not 
many  miles.  Nothing  could  save  them,  but  gaining  the 
mouth  of  the  Frith  of  Tay,  and  then  they  could  bear  up 
for  Dundee.  And  there  was  a  boiling  surge,  and  a  dark 
night,  and  roaring  seas,  and  their  masts  were  floating  far 
away  ;  and  M'Clise  stood  at  the  helm,  keeping  her  broad- 
side to  the  sea :  his  heart  was  full  of  bitterness,  and  his 
guilty  conscience  bore  him  down,  and  he  looked  for  death, 
and  he  dreaded  it ;  for  was  he  not  a  sacrilegious  murderer, 
and  was  there  not  an  avenging  God  above  ? 

Once  more  Katerina  appeared  on  deck,  clinging  for 
support  to  Andrew. 

"I  cannot  stay  below.  Tell  me,  will  it  soon  be 
over?". 

**  Yes,"  replied  M^Clise,  gloomily  j  "it  will  soon  be 
over  with  all  of  us." 

**  How  mean  you  ?  you  told  me  there  was  no  danger." 

"  I  told  you  falsely ;  there  is  death  soon,  and  damnation 
afterwards  :  for  you  I  have  lost  my  soul !  " 

"Oh!  say  not  so." 


The  Legend  of  the  Bell  Rock  291 

**I  say  it.  Leave  me,  leave  me,  woman,  or  I  curse 
thee." 

"  Curse  me,  Andrew  ?  Oh,  no  !  Kiss  me,  Andrew  ; 
and  if  we  are  to  perish,  let  us  expire  in  each  other's 
arms." 

"  'Tis  as  well ;  you  have  dragged  me  to  perdition. 
Leave  me,  I  say,  for  you  have  my  bitter  curse." 

Thus  was  his  guilty  love  turned  to  hate,  now  that 
death  was  staring  him  in  the  face. 

Katerina  made  no  reply.  She  threw  herself  on  the 
deck,  and  abandoned  herself  to  her  feeling  of  bitter 
anguish.  And  as  she  lay  there,  and  M'Clise  stood  at  the 
helm,  the  wind  abated  ;  the  vessel  was  no  longer  borne 
down  as  before,  although  the  waves  were  still  mountains 
high.  The  seamen  on  board  rallied ;  some  fragments  of 
sail  were  set  on  the  remnants  of  the  masts,  and  there  was 
a  chance  of  safety.  M'Clise  spoke  not,  but  watched  the 
helm.  The  wind  shifted  in  their  favour ;  and  hope  rose 
in  every  heart.  The  Frith  of  Tay  was  now  open,  and 
they  were  saved  !  Light  was  the  heart  of  M'Clise  when 
he  kept  away  the  vessel,  and  gave  the  helm  up  to  the 
mate.  He  hastened  to  Katerina,  who  still  remained  on 
the  deck,  raised  her  up,  whispered  comfort  and  returning 
love ;  but  she  heard  not — she  could  not  forget — and  she 
wept  bitterly. 

"  We  are  saved,  dear  Katerina  !  " 

*' Better  that  we  had  been  lost!"  replied  she,  mourn- 
fully. 

**  No,  no  !  say  not  so,  with  your  own  Andrew  pressing 
you  to  his  bosom." 

**  Your  bitter  curse  !  " 

**  'Twas  madness — nothing — I  knew  not  what  I  said." 

But  the  iron  had  entered  into  her  soul.  Her  heart  was 
broken. 

"You  had  better  give  orders  for  them  to  look  out  for 
the  Bell  Rock,"  observed  the  man  at  the  helm  to  M^Clise. 

The  Bell  Rock  !  M'Clise  shuddered,  and  made  no  reply. 
Onward  went  the  vessel,  impelled  by  the  sea  and  wind : 


292  Olla  Podrida 

one  moment  raised  aloft,  and  towering  over  the  surge  ;  at 
another,  deep  in  the  hollow  trough,  and  walled  in  by  the 
convulsed  element.  M*Clise  still  held  his  Katerina  in  his 
arms,  who  responded  not  to  his  endearments,  when  a 
sudden  shock  threw  them  on  the  deck.  The  crashing 
of  the  timbers,  the  pouring  of  the  waves  over  the  stern, 
the  heeling  and  settling  of  the  vessel,  were  but  the  work 
of  a  few  seconds.  One  more  furious  shock, — she  separates, 
falls  on  her  beam  ends,  and  the  raging  seas  sweep  over 
her. 

M'Clise  threw  from  him  her  whom  he  had  so  madly 
loved,  and  plunged  into  the  wave.  Katerina  shrieked,  as 
she  dashed  after  him,  and  all  was  over. 

When  the  storm  rises,  and  the  screaming  sea-gull  seeks 
the  land,  and  the  fisherman  hastens  his  bark  towards  the 
beach,  there  is  to  be  seen,  descending  from  the  dark 
clouds  with  the  rapidity  of  lightning,  the  form  of  Andrew 
M*Ciise,  the  heavy  bell  to  which  he  is  attached  by  the 
neck,  bearing  him  down  to  his  doom. 

And  when  all  is  smooth  and  calm,  when  at  the  ebbing 
tide,  the  wave  but  gently  kisses  the  rock,  then  by  the 
light  of  the  silver  moon,  the  occupants  of  the  vessels 
which  sail  from  the  Firth  of  Tay,  have  often  beheld  the 
form  of  the  beautiful  Katerina,  waving  her  white  scarf 
as  a  signal  that  they  should  approach,  and  take  her  ofF 
from  the  rock  on  which  she  is  seated.  At  times,  she  offers 
a  letter  for  her  father,  Vandermaclin  ;  and  she  mourns  and 
weeps  as  the  wary  mariners,  with  their  eyes  fixed  on  her, 
and  with  folded  arms,  pursue  their  course  in  silence  and 
in  dread. 


Moonshine 


Those  who  have  visited  our  West  India  possessions,  must 

have  often   been   amused  with   the  humour  and  cunning 

which  occasionally  appear  in  a  negro  more  endowed  than 

the  generality  of  his   race,  particularly  when  the  master 

also  happens   to  be  a  humourist.     The   swarthy  servitor 

seems    to    reflect    his    patron's    absurdities ;    and    having 

thoroughly  studied  his   character,   ascertains  how  far  he 

can  venture  to  take  liberties  without  fear  of  punishment. 

One  of  these  strange    specimens  I  once  met  with  in  a 

negro  called  Moonshine,   belonging   to  a  person  equally 

strange  in  his  own  way,  who  had,  for  many  years,  held 

the  situation  of  harbour-master  at  Port  Royal,  but  had 

then  retired  on  a  pension,  and  occupied  a  small  house  at 

Ryde,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight.     His  name  was  Cockle,  but 

he  had  long  been  addressed  as  Captain  Cockle ;  and  this 

brevet  rank  he  retained  until  the   day  of  his   death.     In 

person  he  was  very  large  and  fat — not  unlike  a  cockle  in 

shape :    so  round  were  his  proportions,  and  so  unwieldy, 

that  it  appeared  much  easier  to  roll  him  along  from  one 

place    to    another,    than    that    he    should   walk.     Indeed, 

locomotion  was  not  to  his  taste  :  he  seldom  went  much 

farther  than  round  the  small  patch  of  garden  which  was  in 

front  of  his  house,  and  in  which  he  had  some  pinks  and 

carnations  and  chrysanthemums,  of  which  he  was  not  a 

little   proud.     His    head    was    quite    bald,    smooth,    and 

shining  white  ;  his  face  partook  of  a  more  roseate  tint, 

increasing  in  depth  till   it  settled  into  an    intense  red  at 

the  tip  of  his  nose.     Cockle  had  formerly  been  a  master 

of  a  merchant  vessel,  and  from  his  residence  in  a  warm 

climate  had  contracted  a  habit  of  potation,  which  became 

293 


294  0113.  Podrida 

confirmed  during  the  long  period  of  his  holding  his 
situation  at  Port  Royal.  He  had  purchased  Moonshine 
for  three  hundred  dollars,  when  he  was  about  seven  years 
old,  and,  upon  his  return  to  England,  had  taken  him  with 
him. 

Moonshine  was  very  much  attached  to  his  master,  very 
much  attached  to  having  his  own  way,  and  was,  farther, 
very  much  attached  to  his  master's  grog  bottle. 

The  first  attachment  was  a  virtue;  the  second  human 
nature  ;  and  the  third,  in  the  opinion  of  old  Cockle,  a  crime 
of  serious  magnitude.  I  very  often  called  upon  Captain 
Cockle,  for  he  had  a  quaint  humour  about  him  which 
amused  ;  and,  as  he  seldom  went  out,  he  was  always  glad 
to  see  any  of  his  friends.  Another  reason  was,  that  I  seldom 
went  to  the  house  without  finding  some  entertainment  in 
the  continual  sparring  between  the  master  and  the  man. 
I  was  at  that  time  employed  in  the  Preventive  Service,  and 
my  station  was  about  four  miles  from  the  residence  of 
Cockle.  One  morning,  I  stalked  in  and  found  him,  as 
usual,  in  his  little  parlour  on  the  ground  floor. 

"  Well,  Cockle,  my  boy,  how  are  you  ? " 

**  Why,  to  tell  you  the  truth.  Bob,  I'm  all  wrong.  I'm  on 
the  stool  of  repentance  ;  to  wit,  on  this  easy  chair,  doing 
penance,  as  you  perceive,  in  a  pair  of  duck  trousers.  Last 
night  I  was  half  seas  over,  and  tolerably  happy ;  this 
morning,  I  am  high  and  dry,  and  intolerably  miserable. 
Carried  more  sail  than  ballast  last  night,  and  lost  my  head  ; 
this  morning  I've  found  it  again,  with  a  pig  of  ballast  in  it 
I  believe.     All  owing  to  my  good  nature." 

"  How  is  that.  Cockle  ?  " 

"Why,  that  Jack  Piper  was  here  last  night ;  and  rather 
than  he  should  drink  all  the  grog  and  not  find  his  way 
home,  I  drank  some  myself — he'd  been  in  a  bad  way  if  I 
had  not,  poor  fellow  ! — and  now,  you  see,  I'm  suffering  all 
from  good  nature.  Easiness  of  disposition  has  been  my 
ruin,  and  has  rounded  me  into  this  ball,  by  wearing  away 
all  my  sharp  edges.  Bob." 

"  It  certainly  was  very  considerate  and  very  kind  of  you. 


Moonshine 


295 


G)ckle,  especially  when  we  know  how  much  you  must  have 
acted  at  variance  with  your  inclinations." 

"  Yes,  Bob,  yes  ;  I  am  the  milk  punch  of  human  kind- 
ness ;  I  often  cry — when  the  chimney  smokes ;  and  some- 
times— when  I  laugh  too  much.  You  see,  I  not  only  give 
my  money,  as  others  will  do,  but,  as  last  night,  I  even  give 
my  head  to  assist  a  fellow-creature.  I  could,  however, 
dispense  with  it  for  an  hour  or  two  this  morning." 

"  Nay,  don't  say  that ;  for  although  you  might  dispense 
with  the  upper  part,  you  could  not  well  get  on  without  your 
mouth.  Cockle." 

"  Very  true.  Bob ;  a  chap  without  a  mouth  would  be 
like  a  ship  without  a  companion  hatch  ; — talking  about  that, 
the  combings  of  my  mouth  are  rather  dry — what  do  you 
say,  Bob,  shall  we  call  Moonshine  ?  " 

"  Why  it's  rather  broad  daylight  for  Moonshine." 

"  He's  but  an  ecHpse — a  total  eclipse,  I  may  say.  The 
fact  is,  my  head  is  so  heavy,  that  it  rolls  about  on  my 
shoulders  ;  and  I  must  have  a  stifFener  down  my  throat  to 
prop  it  up.  So,  Moonshine,  shine  out,  you  black-faced 
rascal !  " 

The  negro  was  outside,  cleaning  his  knives  : — he 
answered,  but  continued  at  his  work. 

"  How  me  shine,  Massa  Cockle,  when  you  neber  gib  me 
shiner  V 

"  No  :  but  I'll  give  you  a  shinner  on  your  lower  limb, 
that  shall  make  you  feel  planet-struck,  if  you  don't  show 
your  ugly  face,"  replied  Cockle. 

**  Massa  Cockle,  you  full  of  dictionary  dis  marning." 

"  Come  here,  sir  !  " 

"  Why  you  so  parsonal  dis  marning,  sar,"  replied 
Moonshine,  rubbing  away  at  the  knife-board — "  my  face 
no  shine  more  dan  your  white  skull  widout  hair." 

"  I  pulled  one  out,  you  scoundrel,  every  time  you  stole 
my  grog,  and  now  they  are  all  gone. — Hairs !  what  should 
I  do  with  heirs  when  I've  nothing  to  leave,"  continued 
Cockle,  addressing  me — "  hairs  are  like  rats,  that  quit 
a  ship  as  soon  as   she  gets  old.     Now,   Bob,   I  wonder 


296  OUa  Podrida 

how  long  that  rascal  will  make  us  wait.  I  brought  him 
home  and  gave  him  his  freedom  —  but  give  an  inch  and 
he  takes  an  ell.  Moonshine,  I  begin  to  feel  angry — the 
tip  of  my  nose  is  red  already." 

**  Come  directly,  Massa  Cockle." 

Moonshine  gave  two  more  rubs  on  the  board,  and  then 
made  his  appearance. 

**  You  call  me,  sar  ?  " 

**  What's  the  use  of  calling  you,  you  black  rascal  !  " 

**  Now,  sar,  dat  not  fair — you  say  to  me.  Moonshine, 
always  do  one  ting  first- — so  I  'bey  order  and  finish  knives 
— dat  ting  done,  I  come  and  'bey  nest  order." 

"  Well,  bring  some  cold  water  and  some  tumblers." 

Moonshine  soon  appeared  with  the  articles,  and  then 
walked  out  of  the  room,  grinning  at  me. 

"  Moonshine,  where  are  you  going,  you  thief? — when 
did  you  ever  see  me  drink  cold  water,  or  offer  it  to  my 
friends  ? " 

**Nebber  see  you  drink  it  but  once,  and  den  you  tipsy, 
and  tink  it  gin ;  but  you  very  often  gib  notin  but  water 
to  your  friends,  Massa  Cockle." 

**  When,  you  scoundrel  ?  " 

**  Why,  very  often  you  say  dat  water  quite  strong 
enough  for  me." 

"  That's  because  I  love  you.  Moonshine.  Grog  is  a 
sad  enemy  to  us." 

"  Massa  Cockle  real  fine  Christian — he  lub  him  enemy," 
interrupted  Moonshine,  looking  at  me. 

**  At  all  events,  I'm  not  ashamed  to  look  mine  enemy 
in  the  face — so  hand  us  out  the  bottle." 

Moonshine  put  the  bottle  on  the  table. 

"  Now,  Bob,"  said  Cockle,  "  what  d'ye  say  to  a  seven 
hell-er  ?     Why,  hallo  !  what's  become  of  all  the  grog  ?  " 

"  All  drank  last  night,  Massa  Cockle,"  repHed  Moon- 
shine. 

"  Now,  you  ebony  thief,  I'll  swear  that  there  was  half 
a  bottle  left  when  I  took  my  last  glass  ;  for  I  held  the 
bottle  up  to  the  candle  to  ascertain  the  ullage." 


Moonshine  297 

"  When  you  go  up  tairs,  Massa  Cockle,  so  help  me 
Gad  !  not  one  drop  left  in  de  bottle," 

**  Will  you  take  your  oath,  Moonshine,  that  you  did 
not  drink  any  last  night  ?  " 

**  No,  Massa  Cockle,  because  I  gentleman,  and  nebber 
tell  lie — me  drink,  because  you  gib  it  to  me." 

"  Then  I  must  have  been  drunk  indeed.  Now,  tell  me, 
how  did  I  give  it  to  you  ? — tell  me  every  word  which 
passed." 

"  Yes,  Massa  Cockle,  me  make  you  recollect  all  about 
it.  When  Massa  Piper  go  away,  you  look  at  bottel  and 
den  you  say,  *  Fore  I  go  up  to  bed,  I  take  one  more  glass 
for  coming  up ' — den  I  say,  *  'Pose  you  do,  you  nebber  be 
able  to  go  up^  Den  you  say,  *  Moonshine,  you  good 
fellow  (you  always  call  me  good  fellow  when  you  want 
me),  you  must  help  me.'  You  drink  your  grog — you  fall 
back  in  de  chair,  and  you  shut  first  one  eye  and  den  you 
shut  de  oder.  I  see  more  grog  on  de  table  :  so  I  take 
up  de  bottel  and  I  say,  *  Massa  Cockle,  you  go  up  stairs  ?  * 
and  you  say,  *  Yes,  yes — directly.'  Den  I  hold  de  bottel 
up  and  say  to  you,  *  Massa,  shall  I  help  you  ? '  and  you 
say  *  Yes,  you  must  help  me.'  So  den  I  take  one  glass 
of  grog,  'cause  you  tell  me  to  help  you." 

"  I  didn't  tell  you  to  help  yourself  though,  you 
scoundrel  !  " 

"  Yes,  Massa,  when  you  tell  me  to  help  you  with  de 
bottel,  I  'bey  order,  and  help  myself.  Den,  sar,  I  waits 
little  more,  and  I  say,  *  Massa,  now  you  go  up'tairs,'  and 
you  start  up  and  you  wake,  and  you  say,  *  Yes,  yes  ; '  and 
den  I  hold  up  and  show  you  bottel  again,  and  I  say,  *  Shall 
I  help  you,  massa  ? '  and  den  you  say  *  Yes.'  So  I  'bey 
order  again,  and  take  one  more  glass.  Den  you  open 
mouth  and  you  snore — so  I  look  again  and  I  see  one  little 
glass  more  in  bottel,  and  I  call  you,  *■  Massa  Cockle,  Massa 
Cockle,'  and  you  say,  *  high — high  ! ' — and  den  you  head 
fall  on  you  chest,  and  you  go  sleep  again — so  den  I  call 
again  and  I  say,  *  Massa  Cockle,  here  one  lilly  more  drop, 
shall  I  drink  it  ? '  and  you  nod  you  head  on  you  bosom, 


298  011a  Podrida 

and  say  noting — so  I  not  quite  sure,   and  I  say  again, 

*  Massa  Cockle,  shall  I  finish  this  lilly  drop  ? '  and  you  nod 
you  head  once  more.     Den  I  say,  *  all  right,'  and  I  say, 

*  you  very  good  helt,  Massa  Cockle  ; '  and  I  finish  de 
bottel.  Now,  Massa,  you  ab  de  whole  tory,  and  it  all 
really  for  true." 

I  perceived  that  Cockle  was  quite  as  much  amused  at 
this  account  of  Moonshine's  as  I  was  myself,  but  he  put  on 
a  bluff  look. 

**  So,  sir,  it  appears  that  you  took  advantage  of  my_ 
helpless  situation,  to  help  yourself." 

"  Massa  Cockle,  just  now  you  tell  Massa  Farran  dat  you 
drink  so  much,  all  for  good  nature  to  Massa  Piper — I  do 
same  all  for  good  nature." 

"  Well,  Mr  Moonshine,  I  must  have  some  grog,"  replied 
Cockle,  "  and  as  you  helped  yourself  last  night,  now  you 
must  help  me  ; — get  it  how  you  can,  I  give  you  just  ten 
minutes " 

"  'Pose  you  gib  me  ten  shillings,  sar,"  interrupted 
Moonshine,  "  dat  better." 

"  Cash  is  all  gone.  I  havn't  a  skillick  till  quarter-day, 
not  a  shot  in  the  locker  till  Wednesday.  Either  get  me 
some  more  grog,  or  you'll  get  more  kicks  than  halfpence." 

**  You  no  ab  money — you  no  ab  tick — how  I  get  grog, 
Massa  Cockle  ?  Missy  O'Bottom,  she  tell  me,  last  quarter- 
day,  no  pay  nvhole  bill,  she  not  half  like  it ;  she  say  you 
great  deceiver,  and  no  trust  more." 

**  Confound  the  old  hag  !  Would  you  believe  it,  Bob, 
that  Mrs  Rowbottom  has  wanted  to  grapple  with  me  these 
last  two  years — wants  to  make  me  landlord  of  the  Goose 
and  Pepper-box,  taking  her  as  a  fixture  with  the  premises. 
I  suspect  I  should  be  the  goose,  and  she  the  pepper-box  ; 
— but  we  never  could  shape  that  course.  In  the  first 
place,  there's  too  much  of  her  ;  and,  in  the  next,  there's 
too  much  of  me.  I  explained  this  to  the  old  lady  as  well 
as  I  could ;  and  she  swelled  up  as  big  as  a  balloon,  saying, 
that,  when  people  were  really  attached^  they  never  attached 
any  weight  to  such  trifling  obstacles." 


Moonshine 


299 


*'  But  you  must  have  been  sweet  upon  her.  Cockle  ? " 

"  Nothing  more  than  a  little  sugar  to  take  the  nauseous 
taste  of  my  long  bill  out  of  her  mouth.  As  for  the  love 
part  of  the  story,  that  was  all  her  own.  I  never  contradict 
a  lady,  because  it's  not  polite  -,  but  since  I  explained,  the 
old  woman  has  huffed,  and  wo'n't  trust  me  with  half  a 
quartern — will  she.  Moonshine  ?  " 

"  No,  sar :  when  I  try  talk  her  over,  and  make 
promise,  she  say  dat  all  moonshine.  But,  sar,  I  try  'gain — 
I  tink  I  know  how."  And  Moonshine  disappeared,  leaving 
us  in  the  dark  as  to  what  his  plans  might  be. 

"  I  wonder  you  never  did  marry,  Cockle,"  I  observed. 

"  You  would  not  wonder  if  you  knew  all.  I  must  say, 
that  once,  and  once  only,  I  was  very  near  it.  And  to 
whom  do  you  think  it  was — a  woman  of  colour." 

**  A  black  woman  ?  " 

**  No  :  not  half  black,  only  a  quarter — what  they  call 
a  quadroon  in  the  West  Indies.  But,  thank  Heaven  !  she 
refused  me." 

"  Refused  you  !  hang  it.  Cockle,  I  never  thought  that 
you  had  been  refused  by  a  woman  of  colour." 

"  I  was,  though.  You  shall  hear  how  it  happened. 
She  had  been  the  quadroon  wife  (you  know  what  that 
means)  of  a  planter  of  the  name  of  Guiness ;  he  died,  and 
not  only  bequeathed  her  her  liberty,  but  also  four  good 
houses  in  Port  Royal,  and  two  dozen  slaves.  He  had 
been  dead  about  two  years,  and  she  was  about  thirty, 
when  I  first  knew  her.  She  was  very  rich,  for  she  had  a 
good  income  and  spent  nothing,  except  in  jewels  and  dress 
to  deck  out  her  own  person,  which  certainly  was  very 
handsome,  even  at  that  time,  for  she  never  had  had  any 
family.  Well,  if  I  was  not  quite  in  love  with  her,  I  was 
with  her  houses  and  her  money  ;  and  I  used  to  sit  in  her 
verandah  and  talk  sentimental.  One  day  I  made  my  pro- 
posal. *  Massa  Cockle,'  said  she,  *  dere  two  ting  I  not 
like  \  one  is,  I  not  like  your  name.  'Pose  I  'cept  you 
offer,  you  must  change  you  name.' 

"  *  Suppose  you  accept  my  offer,  Mistris  Guiness,  you'll 


300  Olla  Podrida 

change  your  name.  I  don't  know  how  I  am  to  change 
mine,'  I  replied. 

"  *  I  make  'quiry,  Massa  Cockle,  and  I  find  that  by  act 
and  parliament  you  get  anoder  name.' 

"  *  An  act  of  parliament ! '  I  cried. 

"  *  Yes,  sar ;  and  I  pay  five  hundred  gold  Joe  'fore  I 
hear  people  call  me  Missy  Cockle — dat  shell  fish,'  said  she, 
and  she  turned  up  her  nose. 

"  *  Humph  ! '  said  I,  *  and  pray  what  is  the  next  thing 
which  you  wish  ? ' 

"  *  De  oder  ting,  sar,  is,  you  no  ab  coat  am  arms,  no  ab 
seal  to  your  watch,  with  bird  and  beast  pon  'em ;  now 
'pose  you  promise  me  dat  you  take  oder  name,  and  buy  um 
coat  am  arms  j  den,  sar,  I  take  de  matter  into  'sidera- 
tion.' 

"  *  Save  yourself  the  trouble,  ma'am,'  said  I,  jumping 
up ;  *  my  answer  is  short — — I'll  see  you  and  your  whole 
generation  hanged  first ! ' " 

"Well,  that  was  a  very  odd  sort  of  a  wind-up  to  a 
proposal ;  but  here  comes  Moonshine." 

The  black  entered  the  room,  and  put  a  full  bottle  down 
on  the  table. 

**  Dare  it  is,  sar,"  said  he,  grinning. 

"  Well  done.  Moonshine,  now  I  forgive  you ;  but  how 
did  you  manage  it  ?  " 

*'  Me  tell  you  all  de  tory,  sar — first  I  see  Missy 
O'Bottom,  and  I  say,  *  How  you  do,  how  you  find  yourself 
dis  marning  ?  Massa  come,  I  tink,  by-an-bye,  but  he 
almost  fraid,'  I  said.  She  say,  *  What  he  fraid  for  ?  '  *  He 
tink  you  angry — not  like  see  him — no  lub  him  any  more : 
he  very  sorry,  very  sick  at  'art — he  very  much  in  lub  wid 
you.'" 

"  The  devil  you  did !  "  roared  Cockle  ;  "  now  I  shall 
be  bothered  again  with  that  old  woman ;  I  wish  she  was 
moored  as  a  buoy  to  the  Royal  George." 

**  Massa  no  hear  all  yet.  I  say,  *  Miss  O'Bottom,  'pose 
you  no  tell  ? '  *  I  tell.' — *  Massa  call  for  clean  shirt  dis 
morning,  and   I  say,  it  no  clean  shirt  day,  sar ; '  he  say. 


Moonshine  301 

*  Bring  me  clean  shirt ; '  and  den  he  put  him  on  clean  shirt 
and  he  put  him  on  clean  duck  trousers,  he  make  me  brush 
him  best  blue  coat.  I  say,  *  What  all  dis  for,  massa  ? ' 
He  put  him  hand  up  to  him  head,  and  he  fetch  him  breath 
and  say — *  I  fraid  Missy  O'Bottom,  no  hear  me  now — I  no 
ab  courage ; '  and  den  he  sit  all  dress  ready,  and  no  go. 
Den  he  say,  'Moonshine,  gib  me  one  glass  grog,  den  I  ab 
courage.'  I  go  fetch  bottel,  and  all  grog  gone — not  one 
lilly  drop  left ;  den  massa  fall  down  plump  in  him  big 
chair,  and  say,  *I  nebber  can  go.'  'But,'  say  Missy 
O'Bottom,  *  why  he  no  send  for  some  ? '  *  'Cause,'  I  say, 
'quarter-day  not  come — money  all  gone.' — Den  say  she, 

*  If  you  poor  massa  so  very  bad,  den  I  trust  you  one  bottel 
— you  gib  my  compliments  and  say,  I  very  appy  to  see 
him,  and  stay  at  home.' — Den  I  say,  '  Missy  O'Bottom 
pose  massa  not  come  soon  as  he  take  one  two  glass  grog 
cut  my  head  off.'     Dat  all,  sar." 

"  That's  all,  is  it  ?  A  pretty  scrape  you  have  got  me 
into,  you  scoundrel !     What's  to  be  done  now  ? " 

"  Why,  let's  have  a  glass  of  grog  first.  Cockle,"  replied 
I,  "  we've  been  waiting  a  long  while  for  it,  and  we'll  then 
talk  the  matter  over." 

**  Bob,  you're  sensible,  and  the  old  woman  was  no  fool 
in  sending  the  liquor — it  requires  Dutch  courage  to  attack 
such  a  Dutch-built  old  schuyt ;  let's  get  the  cobwebs  out 
of  our  throats,  and  then  we  must  see  how  we  can  get 
out  of  this  scrape.  I  expect  that  I  shall  pay  *  dearly  for 
my  whistle'  this  time  I  wet  mine.  Now,  what's  to  be 
done,  Bob  ? " 

"I  think  that  you  had  better  leave  it  to  Moonshine," 
said  I. 

"  So  I  will. — Now,  sir,  as  you've  got  me  into  this 
scrape,  you  must  get  me  out  of  it. — D'ye  hear  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Massa  Cockle,  I  tink — but  no  ab  courage." 

"I  understand  you,  you  sooty  fellow — here,  drink  this, 
and  see  if  it  will  brighten  up  your  wits.  He's  a  regular 
turnpike,  that  fellow,  everything  must  pay  toll." 

"Massa  Cockle,  I  tell  Missy  O'Bottom  dat  you  come 


302  Olla  Podrida 

soon  as  you  ab  two  glass  grog;  'pose  you  only  drink 
one." 

"  That  wo'n't  do,  Moonshine,  for  I'm  just  mixing  my 
second  ;  you  must  find  out  something  better." 

"  One  glass  grog,  massa,  gib  no  more  dan  one  tought — 
dat  you  ab — " 

**  Well,  then,  here's  another. — Now  recollect,  before  you 
drink  it,  you  are  to  get  me  out  of  this  scrape  ;  if  not,  you 
get  into  a  scrape,  for  I'll  beat  you  as — as  white  as  snow." 

"'Pose  you  no  ivash  nigger  white,  you  no  mangle  him 
white,  Massa  Cockle,"  added  Moonshine. 

"  The  fellow's  ironing  me.  Bob,  ar'n't  he  ?  "  said  Cockle, 
laughing.  "  Now,  before  you  drink,  recollect  the  con- 
ditions." 

**  Drink  first,  sar,  make  sure  of  dat,"  replied  Moonshine, 
swallowing  off  the  brandy  ;  "  tink  about  it  afterwards. — 
Eh !  I  ab  it,"  cried  Moonshine,  who  disappeared,  and 
Cockle  and  I  continued  in  conversation  over  our  grog, 
which  to  sailors  is  acceptable  in  any  one  hour  in  the 
twenty-four.  About  ten  minutes  afterwards  Cockle  per- 
ceived Moonshine  in  the  little  front  garden.  **  There's 
that  fellow.  Bob  ;  what  is  he  about  ?  " 

"  Only  picking  a  nosegay,  I  believe,"  replied  I,  looking 
out  of  the  window. 

"  The  rascal,  he  must  be  picking  all  my  chrysanthemums. 
Stop  him.  Bob." 

But  Moonshine  vaulted  over  the  low  pales,  and  there 
was  no  stopping  him.  It  was  nearly  an  hour  before  he 
returned ;  and  when  he  came  in,  we  found  that  he  was 
dressed  out  in  his  best,  looking  quite  a  dandy,  and  with 
some  of  his  master's  finest  flowers,  in  a  large  nosegay, 
sticking  in  his  waistcoat. 

"  All  right,  sar,  all  right ;  dat  last  glass  grog  gib  me 
fine  idee  ;  you  nebber  ab  more  trouble  bout  Missy 
O'Bottom." 

**  Well,  let's  hear,"  said  Cockle. 

"  I  dress  mysel  bery  'pruce,  as  you  see,  massa.  I  take 
nosegay " 


Moonshine  303 

**  Yes,  I  see  that,  and  be  hanged  to  you." 
*'  Nebber  mind,  Massa  Cockle.    I  say  to  Missy  O'Bottom, 
*Massa   no  able   come,  he  very  sorry,  so  he  send  me;' 

*  Well,'  she  say,  *  what  you  ab  to  say,  sit  down,  Moonshine, 
you  very  nice  man.'  Den  I  say,  *  Massa  Cockle  lub  you 
very  much,  he  tink  all  day  how  he  make  you  appy  ;  den 
he  say.  Missy  O'Bottom  very  fine  'oman,  make  very  fine 
wife.'  Den  Missy  O'Bottom  say,  *  Top  a  moment,'  and 
she  bring  a  bottel  from  cupboard,  and  me  drink  something 
did   make    'tomach   feel   really    warm  *,  and  den  she   say, 

*  Moonshine,  what  you  massa  say  ? '  den  I  say,  massa  say, 

*  You  fine  'oman,  make  good  wife ; '  but  he  shake  urn 
head,  and  say,  *  I  very  old  man,  no  good  for  noting  ;  I  tink 
all  day  how  I  make  her  appy,  and  I  find  out — Moonshine, 
you  young  man,  you  'andsome  feller,  you  good  servant,  I 
not  like  you  go  away,  but  I  tink  you  make  Missy  O'Bottom 
very  fine  'usband ;  so  I  not  care  for  myself,  you  go  to 
Missy  O'Bottom,  and  tell  I  send  you,  dat  I  part  wid  you, 
and  give  you  to  her  for  'usband.' " 

Cockle  and  I  burst  out  laughing.  "Well,  and  what 
did  Mrs  Rowbottom  say  to  that  ?  " 

**  She  jump  up,  and  try  to  catch  me  hair,  but  I  bob  my 
head,  and  she  miss ;  den  she  say,  *  You  filthy  black  rascal, 
you  tell  you  massa,  'pose  he  ever  come  here,  I  break  his 
white  bald  pate  ;  and  'pose  you  ever  come  here,  I  smash 
you  woolly  black  skull.' — Dat  all,  Massa  Cockle ;  you  see 
all  right  now,  and  I  quite  dry  wid  talking." 

*'  All  right  !  do  you  call  it.  I  never  meant  to  quarrel 
with  the  old  woman ;  what  d'ye  think,  Bob — is  it  all 
right  ?  " 

*'  Why,  you  must  either  have  quarrelled  with  her,  or 
married  her,  that's  clear." 

"  Well,  then,  I'm  clear  of  her,  and  so  it's  all  right.  It 
a'n't  every  man  who  can  get  out  of  matrimony  by  sacrificing 
a  nosegay  and  two  glasses  of  grog." 

**Tree  glasses,  Massa  Cockle,"  said  Moonshine. 

"  Well,  three  glasses  ;  here  it  is,  you  dog,  and  it's  dog 
cheap,  too.     Thank  God,  next  Wednesday's  quarter-day. 


3^4 


Olla  Podrida 


Bob,  you  must  dine  with  me — cut  the  service  for  to- 
day." 

"With  all  my  heart,"  replied  I,  "and  I'll  salve  my 
conscience  by  walking  the  beach  all  night ;  but,  Cockle, 
look  here,  there  is  but  a  drop  in  the  bottle,  and  you  have 
no  more.  I  am  like  you,  with  a  clean  swept  hold.  You 
acknowledge  the  difficulty  ?  " 

**  It  stares  me  in  the  face,  Bob  ;  what  must  be  done  ?  " 

"1*11  tell  you — in  the  first  place,  what  have  you  for 
dinner  ? " 

"  Moonshine,  what  have  we  got  for  dinner  ? " 

"  Dinner,  sar  ? — me  not  yet  tink  about  dinner.  What 
you  like  to  ab,  sar  ?  " 

"  What  have  we  got  in  the  house.  Moonshine  ? " 

"  Let  me  see,  sar ;  first  place,  we  ab  very  fine  piece 
picklum  pork ;  den  we  hab  picklum  pork ;  and  den — let 
me  tink — den  we  ab,  we  hab  picklum  pork,  sar." 

"  The  long  and  the  short  of  it  is.  Bob,  that  we  have 
nothing  but  a  piece  of  pickled  pork ;  can  you  dine  off  that  ?  " 

"  Can  a  duck  swim.  Cockle  ? " 

"Please,  sar,  we  ab  plenty  pea  for  dog  baddy ^"^  said 
Moonshine. 

"  Well,  then.  Cockle,  as  all  that  is  required  is  to  put 
the  pot  on  the  fire,  you  can  probably  spare  Moonshine, 
after  he  has  done  that,  and  we  will  look  to  the  cookery ; 
start  him  off  with  a  note  to  Mr  Johns,  and  he  can  bring 
back  a  couple  of  bottles  from  my  quarters." 

"  Really  dat  very  fine  tought,  Massa  Farren  •,  I  put  in 
pork,  and  den  I  go  and  come  back  in  one  hour." 

"  That  you  never  will,  Mr  Moonshine ;  what's  o'clock 
now  ?  mercy  on  us,  how  time  flies  in  your  company. 
Cockle,  it  is  nearly  four  o'clock,  it  will  be  dark  at  six." 

"Nebber  mind,  sar,  me  always  ab  moonshine  whereber  I 
go,"  said  the  black,  showing  his  teeth. 

"  It  will  take  two  hours  to  boil  the  pork.  Bob ;  that 
fellow  has  been  so  busy  this  morning  that  he  has  quite 
forgot  the  dinner." 

"  All  you  business,  Massa  Cockle." 


Moonshine  305 

<<  Very  true  ;  but  now  start  as  soon  as  you  can,  and 
come  back  as  soon  as  you  can ;  here's  the  note." 

Moonshine  took  the  note,  looked  at  the  direction,  as 
if  he  could  read  it,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  seen  to 
depart. 

"  And  now.  Cockle,"  said  I,  "as  Moonshine  will  be 
gone  some  time,  suppose  you  spin  us  a  yarn  to  pass  away 
the  time." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what.  Bob,  I  am  not  quite  so  good  at  that 
as  I  used  to  be.  I've  an  idea  that  when  my  pate  became 
bald,  my  memory  oozed  away  by  insensible  perspira- 
tion." 

"  Never  mind,  you  must  have  something  left,  you  can't 
be  quite  empty." 

"  No,  but  my  tumbler  is ;  so  I'll  just  fill  that  up,  and 
then  I'll  tell  you  how  it  was  that  I  came  to  go  to  sea." 

**  The  very  thing  that  I  should  like  to  hear,  above  all 
others." 

"Well,  then,  you  must  know  that,  like  cockles  in 
general,  I  was  born  on  the  sea-shore,  just  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  out  of  Dover,  towards  Shakespeare's  Cliff.  My 
father  was  a  fisherman  by  profession,  and  a  smuggler  by 
practice,  all  was  fish  that  came  to  his  net ;  but  his  cottage 
was  small,  he  was  supposed  to  be  very  poor,  and  a  very 
bad  fisherman,  for  he  seldom  brought  home  many  ;  but 
there  was  a  reason  for  that,  he  very  seldom  put  his  nets 
overboard.  His  chief  business  lay  in  taking  out  of  vessels 
coming  down  Channel,  goods  which  were  shipped  and 
bonded  for  exportation,  and  running  them  on  shore  again. 
You  know.  Bob,  that  there  are  many  articles  which  are 
not  permitted  to  enter  even  upon  paying  duty,  and  when 
these  goods,  such  as  silks,  &c.,  are  seized  or  taken  in 
prizes,  they  are  sold  for  exportation.  Now,  it  was  then 
the  custom  for  vessels  to  take  them  on  board  in  the  river, 
and  run  them  on  shore  as  they  went  down  Channel,  and 
the  fishing-boats  were  usually  employed  for  this  service ; 
my  father  was  a  well-known  hand  for  this  kind  of  work, 
for  not  being  suspected  he  was  always  fortunate;  of 
o  u 


3o6  Olla  Podrida 

course,  had  he  once  been  caught,  they  would  have  had 
their  eyes  upon  him  after  he  had  suffered  his  punishment. 
Now  the  way  my  father  used  to  manage  was  this,  there 
was  a  long  tunnel  drain  from  some  houses  used  as  manu- 
factories, about  a  hundred  yards  above  his  cottage,  which 
extended  out  into  the  sea  at  low  water  mark,  and  which 
passed  on  one  side  of  our  cottage.  My  father  had  cut 
from  a  cellar  in  the  cottage  into  the  drain,  and  as  it  was 
large  enough  for  a  man  to  kneel  down  in,  he  used  to 
come  in  at  low  water  with  his  coble,  and  make  fast  the 
goods,  properly  secured  from  the  wet  and  dirt  in  tarpaulin 
bags,  to  a  rope,  which  led  from  the  cellar  to  the  sea 
through  the  drain.  When  the  water  had  flowed  sufficiently 
to  cover  the  mouth  of  the  drain,  he  then  threw  the  bags 
overboard,  and,  securing  the  boat,  went  to  the  cottage, 
hauled  up  the  articles,  and  secured  them  too ;  d'ye  under- 
stand ?  My  father  had  no  one  to  assist  him  but  my  brother, 
who  was  a  stout  fellow,  seven  years  older  than  myself, 
and  my  mother,  who  used  to  give  a  helping  hand  when 
required;  and  thus  did  he  keep  his  own  counsel,  and 
grow  rich ;  when  all  was  right,  he  got  his  boat  over  into 
the  harbour,  and  having  secured  her,  he  came  home  as 
innocent  as  a  lamb.  I  was  then  about  eight  or  nine  years 
old,  and  went  with  my  father  and  brother  in  the  coble, 
for  she  required  three  hands,  at  least,  to  manage  her 
properly,  and  like  a  tin-pot,  although  not  very  big,  I  was 
very  useful.  Now  it  so  happened  that  my  father  had 
notice  that  a  brig,  lying  in  Dover  harbour,  would  sail 
the  next  day,  and  that  she  had  on  board  of  her  a  quantity 
of  lace  and  silks,  purchased  at  the  Dover  custom-house 
for  exportation,  which  he  was  to  put  on  shore  again  to 
be  sent  up  to  London.  The  sending  up  to  London  we 
had  nothing  to  do  with  ;  the  agent  at  Dover  managed  all 
that ;  we  only  left  the  articles  at  his  house,  and  then 
received  the  money  on  the  nail.  We  went  to  the  harbour, 
where  we  found  the  brig  hauling  out,  so  we  made  all 
haste  to  get  away  before  her.  It  blew  fresh  from  the 
northward  and  eastward,  and  there  was  a  good  deal  of 


Moonshine  307 

sea  running.  As  we  were  shoving  out,  the  London  agent, 
a  jolly  little  round-faced  fellow,  in  black  clothes,  and  a 
bald  white  head,  called  to  us,  and  said  that  he  wanted  to 
board  a  vessel  in  the  offing,  and  asked  whether  we  would 
take  him.  This  was  all  a  ruse,  as  he  intended  to  go  on 
board  of  the  brig  with  us  to  settle  matters,  and  then 
return  in  the  pilot  boat.  Well,  we  hoisted  our  jib,  drew 
aft  our  foresheet,  and  were  soon  clear  of  the  harbour; 
but  we  found  that  there  was  a  devil  of  a  sea  running, 
and  more  wind  than  we  bargained  for ;  the  brig  came 
out  of  the  harbour  with  a  flowing  sheet,  and  we  lowered 
down  the  foresail  to  reef  it — father  and  brother  busy 
about  that,  while  I  stood  at  the  helm,  when  the  agent 
said  to  me,  *  When  do  you  mean  to  make  a  voyage  ? ' 
*  Sooner  than  father  thinks  for,'  said  I,  *  for  I  want  to 
see  the  world.'  It  was  sooner  than  I  thought  for  too,  as 
you  shall  hear.  As  soon  as  the  brig  was  well  out,  we 
ran  down  to  her,  and  with  some  difficulty  my  father  and 
the  agent  got  on  board,  for  the  sea  was  high  and  cross, 
the  tide  setting  against  the  wind  ;  my  brother  and  I  were 
left  in  the  boat  to  follow  in  the  wake  of  the  brig ;  but 
as  my  brother  was  casting  off  the  rope  forward,  his  leg 
caught  in  the  bight,  and  into  the  sea  he  went ;  however, 
they  hauled  him  on  board,  leaving  me  alone  in  the  coble. 
It  was  not  of  much  consequence,  as  I  could  manage  to 
follow  before  the  wind  under  easy  sail,  without  assistance  : 
so  I  kept  her  in  the  wake  of  the  brig,  both  of  us  running 
nearly  before  it  at  the  rate  of  five  miles  an  hour,  waiting 
till  my  father  should  have  made  up  his  packages,  of  a 
proper  size  to  walk  through  the  tunnel  drain. 

**  The  Channel  was  full  of  ships,  for  the  westerly  winds 
had  detained  them  for  a  long  time.  I  had  followed  the 
brig  about  an  hour,  when  the  agent  went  on  shore  in  a 
pilot  boat,  and  I  expected  my  father  would  soon  be  ready ; 
then  the  wind  veered  more  towards  the  southward,  with 
dirt ;  at  last  it  came  on  foggy,  and  I  could  hardly  see  the 
brig,  and  as  it  rained  hard,  and  blew  harder,  I  wished  that 
my  father  was  ready,  for  my  arms  ached  with  steering  the 


3o8  Olla  Podrida 

coble  for  so  long  a  while.  I  could  not  leave  the  helm,  so  I 
steered  on  at  a  black  lump,  as  the  brig  looked  through  the 
fog :  at  last  the  fog  was  so  thick  that  I  could  not  see  a 
yard  beyond  the  boat,  and  I  hardly  knew  how  to  steer.  I 
began  to  be  frightened,  tired,  and  cold,  and  hungry  I 
certainly  was.  Well,  I  steered  on  for  more  than  an  hour, 
when  the  fog  cleared  up  a  little,  and  then  I  saw  the 
stern  of  the  brig  just  before  me.  My  little  heart  jumped 
with  delight ;  and  I  expected  that  she  would  round-to 
immediately,  and  that  my  father  would  praise  me  for  my 
conduct ;  and,  what  was  still  more  to  the  purpose,  that  I 
should  get  something  to  eat  and  drink.  But  no :  she 
steered  on  right  down  Channel,  and  I  followed  for  more 
than  an  hour  more,  when  it  came  on  to  blow  very  hard, 
and  I  could  scarcely  manage  the  boat — she  pulled  my  little 
arms  off,  and  I  was  quite  exhausted.  The  weather  now 
cleared  up,  and  I  could  make  out  the  vessel  plainly ;  and  I 
immediately  discovered  that  it  was  not  the  brig,  but  a  bark 
which  I  had  got  hold  of  in  the  fog,  so  that  I  did  not  know 
what  to  do  ;  but  I  did  as  most  boys  of  nine  years  old 
would  have  done  who  were  frightened,  I  sat  down  and 
cried,  still,  however,  keeping  the  tiller  in  my  hand  and 
steering  as  well  as  I  could.  At  last,  I  could  hold  it  no 
longer,  I  ran  forward,  let  go  the  fore  and  jib  haulyards 
and  hauled  down  the  sails  ;  drag  them  into  the  boat  I 
could  not,  and  there  I  was,  like  a  young  bear  adrift  in  a 
washing-tub.  I  looked  all  round  me,  and  there  were  no 
vessels  near;  the  bark  had  left  me  two  miles  astern,  it 
was  blowing  a  gale  from  the  S.E.,  with  a  heavy  sea ; 
the  gulls  and  sea  birds  wheeled  and  screamed  in  the 
storm  ;  and  as  I  thought,  when  they  came  close  to  me, 
looked  at  me  with  their  keen  eyes,  as  much  as  to  say, 
*  What  the  devil  are  you  doing  there  ? '  The  boat  was 
as  light  as  a  cork,  and  although  she  was  tossed  and  rolled 
about  so  that  I  was  obliged  to  hold  on,  she  shipped  no 
water  of  any  consequence,  for  the  jib  in  the  water  forward 
had  brought  her  head  to  wind,  and  acted  as  a  sort  of 
floating  anchor.     At  last  there  was  nothing  in  sight,  so  I 


Moonshine  309 

laid  down  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat  and  fell  asleep.  It 
was  daylight  before  I  awoke,  and  then  I  got  up  and 
looked  round  me  —  it  blew  harder  than  ever ;  and, 
although  there  were  some  vessels  at  a  distance,  scudding 
before  the  gale,  they  did  not  mind,  or  perhaps  see  me.  I 
sat  very  melancholy  the  whole  day,  the  tears  ran  down  my 
cheeks,  my  eyes  were  full  of  salt  from  the  spray — I  saw 
at  last  nothing  but  the  roaring  and  trembling  waves.  I 
prayed  every  prayer  I  knew,  that  is,  I  said  the  Lord's 
Prayer,  the  Belief,  and  as  much  of  the  Catechism  as  I 
could  recollect.  It  rained  in  torrents — I  was  wet,  starving, 
and  miserably  cold.  At  night  I  again  fell  asleep  from 
exhaustion.  The  morning  broke  again,  and  the  sun  shone, 
the  gale  was  breaking  off,  and  I  felt  more  cheered  ;  but 
I  was  now  ravenous  from  hunger,  as  well  as  choking  from 
thirst,  and  I  was  so  weak  that  I  could  scarcely  stand.  I 
looked  round  me  every  now  and  then,  and  lay  down 
again.  In  the  afternoon  I  saw  a  large  vessel  standing 
right  for  me  ;  this  gave  me  courage  and  strength.  I  stood 
up  and  waved  my  hat,  and  they  saw  me — the  sea  was 
still  running  very  high,  but  the  wind  had  gone  down. 
She  rounded-to  so  as  to  bring  me  under  her  lee.  Send  a 
boat  she  could  not,  but  the  sea  bore  her  down  upon  me, 
and  I  was  soon  close  to  her.  Men  in  the  chains  were 
ready  with  ropes,  and  I  knew  that  this  was  my  only 
chance.  At  last,  a  very  heavy  sea  bore  her  right  down 
upon  the  boat,  lurching  over  on  her  beam  ends,  her  main 
chains  struck  the  boat  and  sent  her  down,  while  I  was 
seized  by  the  scuff  of  the  neck  by  two  of  the  seamen,  and 
borne  aloft  by  them  as  the  vessel  returned  to  the  weather- 
roll.  They  hauled  me  in,  and  I  was  safe.  It  was  neck  or 
nothing  with  me  then  ;  wasn't  it.  Bob  ? " 

"  It  was,  indeed,  a  miraculous  escape,  Cockle." 
"  Well,  as  soon  as  they  had  given  me  something  to  eat, 
I  told  my  story  ; — and  it  appeared  that  she  was  an  East 
Indiaman  running  down  Channel,  and  not  likely  to  meet 
with  anything  to  send  me  back  again.  The  passengers, 
especially  the  ladies,  were  very  kind  to  me :  and  as  there 


3IO  011a  Podrida 

was   no   help   for   it,   why,  I   took  my  first   voyage   to 
the  East  Itidies.''^ 

*'  And  your  father  and  your  brother  ? " 

"Why,  when  I  met  them,  which  I  did  about  six  years 
afterwards,  I  found  that  they  had  been  in  much  the  same 
predicament,  having  lost  the  coble,  and  the  weather  being 
so  bad  that  they  could  not  get  on  shore  again.  As  there 
was  no  help  for  it,  they  took  their  first  voyage  to  the  West 
Indies;  so  there  was  a  dispersion  of  a  united  family — two 
went  west,  one  went  east,  coble  went  down,  and  mother, 
after  waiting  a  month  or  two,  and  supposing  father  dead, 
went  off  with  a  soldier.  All  dispersed  by  one  confounded 
gale  of  wind  from  the  northward  and  eastward,  so  that's 
the  way  that  I  went  to  sea,  Bob.  And  now  it's  time  that 
Moonshine  was  back." 

But  Moonshine  kept  us  waiting  for  some  time :  when  he 
returned  it  was  then  quite  dark,  and  we  had  lighted 
candles,  anxiously  waiting  for  him ;  for  not  only  was  the 
bottle  empty,  but  we  were  very  hungry.  At  last  we  heard 
a  conversation  at  the  gate,  and  Moonshine  made  his  appear- 
ance with  the  two  bottles  of  spirits,  and  appeared  himself 
to  be  also  in  high  spirits.  The  pork  and  peas  pudding  soon 
were  on  the  table.  We  dined  heartily,  and  were  sitting 
over  the  latter  part  of  the  first  bottle  in  conversation,  it 
being  near  upon  the  eleventh  hour,  when  we  heard  a  noise 
at  the  gate — observed  some  figures  of  men,  who  stayed  a 
short  time  and  then  disappeared.  The  door  opened,  and 
Moonshine  went  out.  In  a  few  seconds  he  returned, 
bringing  in  his  arms  an  anker  of  spirits,  which  he  laid  on 
the  floor,  grinning  so  wide  that  his  head  appeared  half  off. 
Without  saying  a  word,  he  left  the  room  and  returned 
with  another. 

**  Why,  what  the  devil's  this  ?  "  cried  Cockle. 
Moonshine  made  no  answer,  but  went  out  and  in  until  he 
had  brought  six  ankers  in,  one  after  another,  which  he 
placed  in  a  row  on  the  floor.  He  then  shut  the  outside 
door,  bolted  it,  came  in,  and  seating  himself  on  one  of  the 
tubs,  laughed  to  an  excess  which  compelled  him  to  hold 


Moonshine 


3" 


his  sides  ;  during  which  Cockle  and  I  were  in  a  state  of 
astonishment  and  suspense. 

"  Where  the  devil  did  all  this  come  from  ?  "  cried  Cockle, 
actually  getting  out  of  his  easy  chair.  "Tell  me,  sir,  or 
by " 

"  I  tell  you  all,  Massa  Cockle : — you  find  me  better 
friend  dan  Missy  O'Bottom.  Now  you  ab  plenty,  and 
nebber  need  scold  Moonshine  'pose  he  take  lilly  drap-  I 
get  all  dis  present  to  you,  Massa  Cockle." 

I  felt  a  great  degree  of  anxiety,  and  pressed  Moonshine 
to  tell  his  story. 

"  I  tell  you  all,  sar.  When  I  come  back  wid  de  two 
bottel  I  meet  plenty  men  wid  de  tubs  :  dey  say,  '  Hollo 
there,  who  be  you  ? '  I  say,  *  I  come  from  station  ;  bring 
massa  two  bottel,  and  I  show  um.'  Den  dey  say,  *  Where 
you  massa  ?  '  and  I  say,  *  At  um  house  at  Ryde  ' — (den  dey 
tink  dat  you  my  massa,  Massa  Farren) — so  dey  say,  *  Yes, 
we  know  dat,  we  watch  him  dere,  but  now  you  tell,  so  we 
beat  you  dead.'  Den  I  say,  *  What  for  dat  ;  massa  like 
drink,  why  you  no  gib  massa  some  tub,  and  den  he  never 
say  noting,  only  make  fuss  some  time,  'cause  of  Admirality.' 
Den  dey  say,  *  You  sure  of  dat  ? '  and  I  say,  *  Quite  sure 
massa  nebber  say  one  word.'  Den  dey  talk  long  while  j 
last,  dey  come  and  say,  *  You  come  wid  us  and  show  massa 
house.'  So  two  men  come  wid  me,  and  when  dey  come 
to  gate  I  say,  *  Dis  massa  house  when  he  live  at  Ryde, 
and  dere  you  see  massa  ; ' — and  I  point  to  Massa  Cockle, 
but  dey  see  Massa  Farren — so  dey  say,  *  All  very  good  ; 
tree,  four  hour  more,  you  find  six  tub  here ;  tell  you 
massa  dat  every  time  run  tub,  he  alway  hab  six  ; '  den 
dey  go  way,  den  dey  come  back,  leave  tub  ;  dat  all, 
massa." 

"  You  rascal  !  "  exclaimed  I,  rising  up,  "  so  you  have 
compromised  me ;  why  I  shall  lose  my  commission  if  found 
out." 

"  No,  sar  •,  nobody  wrong  but  de  smuggler ;  dey  make 
a  lilly  mistake  ;  case  you  brought  to  court-martial,  I  gib 
evidence,  and  den  I  clear  you." 


312  Olla  Podrida 

"  But  what  must  we  do  with  these  tubs,  Cockle  ?  "  said 
I,  appealing  to  him. 

"  Do,  Bob  ? — why,  they  are  a  present — a  very  welcome 
one,  and  a  very  handsome  one  into  the  bargain.  I  shall 
not  keep  them,  I  pledge  you  my  word  j  let  that  satisfy  you 
— they  shall  all  h^  fairly  entered^ 

*'  Upon  that  condition.  Cockle,"  I  replied,  "  I  shall  of 
course  not  give  information  against  you."  (I  knew  full 
well  what  he  meant  by  saying  he  would  not  keep 
them.) 

*'  How  I  do,  Massa  Cockle,"  said  Moonshine,  with  a  grave 
face  ;  "I  take  um  to  the  custom-house  to-night  or  to- 
morrow marning." 

*'  To-morrow,  Moonshine,"  replied  Cockle  ;  "  at  present 
just  put  them  out  of  sight." 

I  did  not  think  it  prudent  to  make  any  further  inquiries  5 
but  I  afterwards  discovered  that  the  smugglers,  true  to 
their  word,  and  still  in  error,  continued  to  leave  six  tubs 
in  old  Cockle's  garden  whenever  they  succeeded  in  running 
a  cargo,  which,  notwithstanding  all  our  endeavours,  they 
constantly  did.  One  piece  of  information  I  gained  from 
this  affair,  which  was,  the  numbers  of  cargoes  which  were 
run  compared  to  those  which  were  seized  during  the  re- 
mainder of  the  time  I  was  on  that  station,  and  found  it  to 
be  in  the  proportion  of  ten  to  one.  The  cargoes  run  were 
calculated  by  the  observations  of  old  Cockle,  who,  when  I 
called  upon  him,  used  to  say  very  quietly,  "  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  they  did  not  run  a  cargo  last  night.  Bob,  in  spite 
of  all  your  vigilance — was  it  very  dark  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,"  replied  I,  looking  at  the  demure  face 
of  the  negro  j  "  I  suspect  it  was  Moonshine.^'' 


The  Fairy's  Wand 


A     TALE    OF    WINDSOR   PARK   IN   THE   DAYS    OF   THE    MERRY 
MONARCH 

In  the  time  of  Charles  II.,  Windsor  Park  stood  just 
where  it  stands  now,  and  the  castle  of  Windsor  was  very 
often  the  abode  of  royalty,  as  it  is  now ;  but  in  those 
merry,  but  licentious  times,  there  was  much  more  fun  and 
feasting  going  on  than  perhaps  there  is  at  present. 
Rochester  was  master  of  the  revels,  and  the  Countesses  of 

but  I  will  say  nothing  about  the  ladies,  although  some 

of  the  highest  of  our  aristocracy  are  descended  from  them. 

There  were  great  preparations  in  the  castle,  for  King 
Charles  had  invited  down  the  Mayor  of  London,  and  a 
bevy  of  aldermen  ;  not  so  much  with  a  view  of  doing 
honour  to  the  magistrates  of  the  great  and  ancient  city,  as 
with  the  hope  to  extract  some  amusement  from  their 
peculiarities. 

The  fact  is,  that  the  Mayor  and  aldermen  of  London  had 
certified  to  the  Earl  of  Rochester,  that  they  had  some  com- 
plaint to  make  and  some  favour  to  request  of  his  Majesty. 
Rochester,  ever  willing  to  procure  amusement  for  his 
royal  master,  at  the  same  time  was  equally  careful  not  to 
allow  him  to  be  annoyed,  and  therefore  had  contrived  to 
ferret  out  that  the  complaint  against  the  lords  of  the  court, 
was  for  their  too  great  familiarity  with  the  citizens'  wives, 
and  that  the  favour  to  be  demanded  was,  a  curtailment  of 
the  dress,  ornaments,  and  expensive  habits  of  the  city 
ladies. — He  considered  this  a  very  favourable  opportunity 
for  procuring  some  mirth  at  the  expense  of  the  corporation. 

With  the  consent  of  the  king,  he  had  intimated  to  the 
mayor  and  aldermen,  that  they  would  be  received  in  the 

313 


314  Olla  Podrida 

evening,  and  honoured  with  a  seat  at  the  royal  banquet  -, 
and  at  the  same  time  he  had  privately  made  known  to  the 
lady  mayoress,  what  were  the  demands  about  to  be  made  by 
her  husband,  desiring  her  to  communicate  the  same,  under  a 
strict  promise  of  secrecy,  to  the  wives  of  all  the  aldermen  ; 
and  also  acquainting  them  that  his  Majesty  would  be  glad 
to  receive  the  ladies  on  the  same  evening,  provided  that 
they  could  come  without  the  knowledge  of  their  husbands, 
which  might  be  done  by  their  setting  oiFfor  Windsor  some 
short  time  after  them.  It  was  the  intention  of  the  king,  that 
when  the  mayor  and  corporation  should  present  the  address, 
they  should  be  met  face  to  face  by  their  wives,  and  thus 
issue  be  joined. 

But  mortals  were  not  the  only  parties  who  revelled  in 
the  beauties  of  the  park  of  Windsor. 

On  the  evening  that  this  comedy  was  about  to  be 
enacted,  there  reclined  under  the  celebrated  oak,  known  as 
Heme's  Oak,  in  a  small  clear  space  between  some  ferns, 
two  of  those  beings  called  fairies  who  had  for  time  imme- 
morial taken  up  their  quarters  in  that  delightful  retreat. 
Whether  they  were  man  and  wife  is  not  established,  but 
certainly  they  were  male  and  female  ;  and  as  they  appeared 
to  be  on  the  very  best  understanding,  it  is  to  be  presumed 
that  they  were  not  married. 

"  Elda,  there  will  be  a  scene  to-night  at  the  castle,"  said 
the  male  to  the  female  sprite,  as  he  tickled  her  nose  with  a 
blade  of  grass. 

*'  Yes,  Maya  ;  how  foolish  those  mortals  are  !  " 

**  I  have  a  mind  to  create  even  more  mischief,"  rejoined 
Maya,  "  but  if  I  did,  you  would  want  to  see  it." 

*'  Well,  and  suppose  I  did,  dearest  ?" 

"  I  do  not  like  that  you  should  be  in  company  with  those 
women,  Elda ;  those  duchesses  and  countesses." 

**  Bless  me,  Maya  ! — what  are  you  afraid  of?  my  virtue  ? " 

"  Oh  no,  dearest !     I  did  not  mean  that " 

**  Then  I'll  tell  you  what  you  did  mean,  you  jealous-pated 
fool :  you  meant,  that  you  did  not  like  that  I  should  be  in 
the  company  of  the  Earl  of  Rochester  and  the  King.     You 


The  Fairy's  Wand  315 

ought  to  have  more  respect  for  yourself,  and  more  respect 
for  me,  than  to  be  jealous  of  those  mortals." 

"  Nay,  Elda  !  " 

*'  Yes,  yes,  and  your  reason  for  wanting  to  go  alone,  is 
to  hang  over  that  nasty  Duchess  of  Portsmouth." 

**  Upon  my  honour  ! — " 

"  Your  honour,  sir  ! — you  have  none — there,  sir,  you 
may  go." 

*'  Oh,  very  well,  madam ;  just  as  you  please." 

Certainly  there  was  something  very  mortal  in  this  quarrel, 
and  may  remind  the  reader  of  similar  scenes  in  domestic  life. 

It  ended  by  Maya  walking  sulkily  away  in  the  direction 
of  the  castle,  and  of  Elda  following  him  at  a  distance, 
determined  to  watch  his  motions. 

But  if  these  two  lovers  had  quarrelled,  there  were  two 
other  beings  who  were  indulging  in  a  moonlight  walk  on 
the  terrace,  linked  arm-in-arm  so  affectionately,  so  fondly, 
keeping  exact  pace  for  pace,  and  occasionally  embracing 
each  other,  every  one  would  have  thought  that  nothing 
in  the  world  could  ever  have  disunited  them.  They  were 
two  young  ladies  of  the  court,  aged  about  seventeen,  just 
clear  of  their  governess  and  bread-and-butter,  and  newly- 
appointed  maids  of  honour  :  they  were  both  beautiful,  and 
had  contracted  a  friendship,  as  all  girls  do  at  that  age,  when 
love  has  with  them  no  precise  definition.  They  had  sworn 
eternal  affection  after  an  acquaintance  of  eight-and-forty 
hours — the  sun  and  the  moon,  and  all  the  stars  in  the  fir- 
mament— heaven  above,  the  earth  below,  and  everything 
below  that  again,  had  all  been  summoned  to  register  their 
vows ;  and  at  the  time  that  they  were  then  walking  they 
would  have  considered  it  positive  heresy  to  hint  at  the 
idea  of  a  disagreement  even  in  thought ;  but,  as  I  have 
before  observed,  they  were  only  seventeen  years  old. 

Maya,  who  had  bent  his  steps  towards  the  castle, 
perceived  these  two  young  damsels  parading  up  and 
down,  and  although  he  had  not  the  full  power  of  Oberon, 
)^et  he  was  still  a  highly-endowed  fairy.  Among  other 
powers  vested  in  him,  he  had  a  wand,   which  when  it 


3i6  Olla  Podrida 

touched  any  fairy  would  change  that  fairy  into  mortal  size 
and  shape,  and  if  it  touched  any  mortal  would  produce  the 
contrary  effect,  giving  them  for  the  time  the  size  and 
appearance  of  fairies,  imps,  tritons,  naiads,  or  some  of  those 
intermediate  creatures,  which  most  accorded  with  their 
mortal  propensities  and  dispositions. 

This  very  wand  made  him  much  feared  by  the  other 
fairies,  as  they  were  often  punished  by  him  in  this  way,  and 
it  was  only  Oberon,  the  king,  who  had  the  power  of 
reversing  the  charm ;  and  it  is  said,  that  this  very  wand  was 
one  cause  why  his  fair  Elda,  generally  speaking,  behaved 
so  well,  as  he  often  threatened  to  turn  her  into  a  Dutch 
milkmaid ;  which,  as  she  was  of  a  very  beautiful  figure, 
would  have  been  a  very  severe  punishment. 

It  was  with  this  wand — worn  like  a  harlequin's  at  his 
side — that  the  fairy  Maya  was  walking  up  the  terrace  •,  he 
had  changed  himself  to  a  handsome  young  forester,  dressed 
in  a  suit  of  green,  with  bugle  by  his  side,  a  cap  with  black 
feathers  hanging  down  to  his  right  shoulder  ;  wearing  the 
appearance  of  a  very  handsome  young  man  of  about  twenty, 
and  just  the  description  of  person  to  create  a  difference 
between  two  young  ladies,  who  had  half  an  hour  before 
sworn  everlasting  friendship. 

As  he  passed  he  made  a  very  profound  obeisance. 

"  Who  is  he,  dearest  ?  "  said  Miss  Araminta. 

"  Who  is  he,  dearest  ? "  said  Miss  Euthanasia,  both 
nudging  one  another  at  the  same  moment. 

"  He  bowed  to  me,  said  Araminta. 

"No,  sweetest,  it  was  to  me  he  bowed,"  rejoined 
Euthanasia. 

"  Well  I  declare  !  "  cried  Araminta.     What  was  to  follow 
,  is  not  known,  for  the  young  forester  had  retraced  his  steps 
and  now  addressed  the  young  ladies. 

'*  Fair  maids  of  honour,  as  I  presume  you  are  such,"  said 
he,  taking  off  his  cap,  and  displaying  such  handsome  curls 
that  each  young  lady,  for  the  first  time,  thought  how  much 
better  it  had  been  if  she  had  walked  out  alone,  "  may  I  in- 
quire the  cause  of  such  revelry  to-night  in  the  royal  castle?" 


The  Fairy's  Wand  317 

**  The  king  entertains — "  said  Araminta. 

**  The  mayor  and  aldermen,"  cried  Euthanasia,  taking 
the  remainder  of  the  sentence  out  of  her  friend's  mouth. 

**  Indeed  !  "  replied  the  fairy,  who  then  entered  into 
conversation  with  the  young  ladies,  dividing  his  attentions 
as  equally  as  he  could. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  Elda,  who  had  followed  Maya 
at  a  distance,  could  no  longer  restrain  her  jealousy  when 
she  perceived  him  walking  and  talking  so  earnestly,  and, 
as  she  considered,  really  making  love  to  these  fair  mortals. 
She  took  the  shape  of  a  big  bumble  bee,  and  flying  to  him 
settled  on  his  back,  stinging  him  so  severely  that  he  uttered 
an  exclamation  of  pain  •,  and  the  young  ladies  were  tenderly 
enquiring  where  he  was  hurt,  when  he  felt  convinced  that 
it  was  Elda  who  had  thus  punished  him.  Fairies  have 
consciences  as  well  as  mortals.  Maya  felt  that  he  was,  or 
what  was  quite  as  bad,  that  he  appeared  to  be,  guilty.  He 
had  already  repented  of  his  quarrel  with  Elda  ;  and,  after 
receiving  the  condolence  of  the  two  young  ladies,  who  vied 
in  their  attentions  to  him,  he  very  suddenly  took  leave, 
resolving  in  his  own  mind  that  he  would  seek  out  Elda, 
and  make  friends  with  her,  infinitely  preferring  her  to  two 
young  bread-and-butter  maids  of  honour.  Thus  did  the 
fairy  prove  his  good  sense,  and  abandon  all  idea  of  making 
mischief  at  the  castle. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  the  sting  received  from  the 
jealous  Elda  was  so  very  severe,  that  in  his  jump  forward 
Maya  had  allowed  his  wand  to  drop  out  of  his  belt,  and  when 
he  departed  he  did  not  perceive  his  loss.  There  it  lay  on 
the  terrace,  between  the  two  young  maids  of  honour,  who 
already  had  discovered  that  their  eternal  friendship  was  on 
the  wane.  They  both  remained  silent  and  watching  the 
receding  figure  of  the  handsome  young  forester  for  at 
least  a  minute  and  a  half.  At  last  this  unheard-of  duration 
of  silence  between  two  young  ladies  who  had  sworn  eternal 
friendship  was  broken.  It  proved  to  be  like  the  calm  which 
precedes  the  tornado. 

"  Well,  I  am  sure  !  "  cried  Euthanasia. 


31 8  Olla  Podrida 

**  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  replied  Araminta. 

*' Courtly  manners,  indeed!  "  continued  Euthanasia. 

**  Yes,  you  may  say  that  ;  no  wonder  he  wouldn't  stay,** 
responded  Araminta,  tossing  her  head. 

"  No  ;  when  you  drove  him  away,  miss." 

"  Me,  miss  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you,  miss." 

**  No,  miss." 

"  Yes,  miss." 

I  regret  to  report  the  scene  which  followed.  After 
trying  hard  to  drown  each  other's  voices,  the  two  young 
maids  of  honour,  who  had  sworn  eternal  friendship,  com- 
menced pushing,  then  spitting,  then  slapping,  then  beating. 
Then  they  pulled  each  other's  hair — then  —  yes,  then 
Araminta  perceived  the  wand  lying  on  the  terrace,  and  she 
seized  it  with  the  intention  of  chastising  Euthanasia ;  and 
Euthanasia  perceiving  her  intention,  seized  hold  of  the 
other  end  of  the  wand.  A  struggle  took  place,  which 
ended  in  the  wand  breaking  in  half.  Then  they  separated, 
Araminta  throwing  her  half  at  her  dearest  friend,  her 
dearest  friend  returning  the  compliment ;  after  which,  they 
both  ran  home  to  the  castle,  vowing  that  nothing  should 
ever  induce  them  even  to  speak  one  single  word  to  each 
other  as  long  as  they  lived.  We  must  leave  them  to  go 
to  their  rooms,  wash  their  pretty  faces,  and  repair  the 
damage  done  to  their  dresses,  while  we  inform  the  reader 
of  what  is  going  on  in  the  reception-room  of  the  castle. 

The  mayor  and  corporation  had  duly  arrived,  and  had 
been  ushered  into  a  private  room  until  his  Majesty  should 
be  ready  to  receive  them.  The  Earl  of  Rochester  had 
detained  them  there  purposely  to  give  time  for  the  arrival 
of  the  ladies  of  the  corporation,  who  were  by  his  directions 
received  at  a  private  door.  The  king,  amused  with  the 
scheme,  allowed  Rochester  to  make  his  arrangements. 
When  all  was  ready,  the  mayor  and  aldermen,  who  had 
been  very  comfortably  regaled  with  sherry  and  biscuits,  so 
that  the  time  did  not  appear  too  tedious,  were  requested 
to  enter  the  presence-chamber,  where  the  king  received 


The  Fairy's  Wand  319 

them  in  due  form.  The  mayor,  approaching  the  throne, 
knelt  down  and  laid  at  his  Majesty's  feet  the  petition, 
which  he  was  requested  by  the  king  to  read. 

The  preamble  set  forth  that  the  young  nobility  of  the 
day  were  not  content  with  the  pleasures  of  the  court,  but 
were  in  the  custom  of  entering  the  city  on  the  other  side 
of  Temple-bar,  creating  disturbances,  and  visiting  the 
wives  of  his  Majesty's  dutiful  citizens,  giving  much  cause 
for  scandal,  "  and  requesting  that  in  future  his  Majesty 
would  be  pleased  to  give  directions  that  the  nobility  should 
not  enter  the  city  without  the  permission  of  the  corporation, 
as  such  would  prove  most  advantageous  to  the  morals  of 
the  community." 

''  Hah  !  "  observed  his  Majesty,  "  how  is  this,  my  Lord 
of  Rochester  ?  Do  our  young  gallants  create  disturbances 
with  our  good  citizens  .?     This  must  be  looked  to." 

*'  May  it  please  your  Majesty,"  replied  the  Earl  of 
Rochester,  "  assertion  is  not  proof.  Here  are  now  twenty- 
iive  of  the  wealthiest  citizens  of  London  present,  and  on 
their  knees  before  you — they  have  twenty-five  wives — is 
there  any  one  who  will  accuse  his  wife,  or  his  neighbour's 
wife,  of  listening  to  the  nonsense  of  these  young  nobles  ? 
Either  they  must  Hsten  to  them,  or,  if  they  do  not  listen 
to  them,  there  is  no  harm  done." 

**  Very  true,"  replied  the  king.  "  Say,  Mr  Mayor, 
where  are  your  proofs  of  what  you  have  now  asserted  ? " 

"  May  it  please  your  Majesty,  women  are  women," 
replied  the  mayor. 

"I  believe  we  may  admit  that,  your  Majesty,"  rejoined 
Rochester,  with  a  smile. 

''Yes.  In  that  point  I  agree  with  Mr  Mayor — go  on. 
What  further  does  this  petition  contain  ?  " 

"A  request  that  your  Majesty  will  pass  some  law  by 
which  our  city  dames  may  be  prevented  from  vying  in 
expense  with  those  of  the  court — to  forbid  stuffs  of  gold, 
or  Genoa  velvet,  to  be  worn  by  them — and  all  ornaments 
of  too  high  price — which  are  not  suitable  to  our  condition 
as  simple  artisans,  and  very  ruinous  to  our  pockets." 


320 


Olla  Podrida 


**  May  it  please  your  Majesty,  as  any  man  can  legislate 
for  his  own  household,  I  think  this  last  clause  quite 
unnecessary.  If  the  good  citizens  of  London  cannot  afford 
to  pay  for  such  finery  they  must  prevent  their  wives 
from  purchasing  it." 

"  That  is  very  true,"  observed  his  Majesty ;  "  you 
must  prevent  it  yourselves." 

**May  it  please  your  Majesty,  we  cannot,"  exclaimed 
the  whole  deputation,  with  one  voice. 

"  "Well,  this  is  a  very  serious  affair,"  replied  the  king, 
and  it  must  be  laid  before  a  special  privy-council.  Are 
you  prepared  to  prove  before  the  council,  when  you  are 
called  on,  that  your  wives  have  been  guilty  of  listening  to 
these  young  gallants — have  received  them,  and  admitted 
their  familiarities — say,  Mr  Mayor,  and  gentlemen,  are  you 
prepared  to  prove  this  ?  " 

"  All  are  prepared  and  ready  to  swear  to  it,"  replied 
the  deputation. 

"Well  then,  Mr  Mayor,  you  will  have  the  goodness  to 
retire  for  a  short  time  while  I  consult  with  my  council,  which 
I  shall  immediately  summon ;  and  if  the  facts  are  as  you  say, 
and  you  prove  them,  your  petition  shall  be  attended  to." 

The  mayor  and  aldermen,  delighted  at  this  gracious 
reply,  rose  and  humbly  backed  out  of  the  presence-chamber. 
As  soon  as  they  had  retired,  the  lady  mayoress  and  all  the 
aldermen's  wives  were  ushered  in,  requested  by  his 
Majesty  to  be  seated  on  chairs  ranged  round  the  throne, 
and  thus  was  formed  King  Charles'  special  council. 
Rochester  read  the  petition  in  a  merry  way,  and  then  his 
Majesty  requested  the  lady  mayoress,  as  first  in  rank,  to 
give  her  opinion. 

"  May  it  please  your  Majesty,"  said  the  mayoress,  **  it  is 
very  true  that  many  of  the  young  nobility  do  come  within 
the  city  walls  and  prove  good  customers  to  our  husbands. 
As  for  disturbances,  I  never  heard  of  any,  for  our  husbands 
are  peaceable  men ;  and  as  for  their  paying  attention  to  the 
ladies,  it  is  in  my  opinion  only  pp.ying  a  compliment  to  our 
husbands,  as  well  as  to  ourselves." 


The  Fairy's  Wand  321 

((  Very  well  argued,'*  replied  the  king. — "  Your  opinion, 
madam,  on  this  first  point,"  continued  the  king,  addressing 
himself  to  one  of  the  aldermen's  ladies. 

"  Pray,  does  your  Majesty  think  it  fair,"  replied  the  lady, 
who  was  very  pretty,  "  that  our  husbands  are  to  leave  us 
all  day  long,  to  add  to  their  heaps  of  money,  which  they 
care  for  more  than  they  do  for  us,  and  that  we  are  not  to 
amuse  ourselves  in  some  way  }  Besides,  it  can't  be  wrong, 
for  the  king  sets  the  example,  and  the  king  can  do  no 
wrong." 

"  May  it  please  your  Majesty,  that  last  argument  settles 
the  point,"  observed  Rochester ;  **  and  I  believe  I  may  say, 
that  the  whole  council  are  of  the  same  opinion." 

The  ladies  bowed  their  heads  in  acquiescence. 

"  And  now  as  to  the  other  request  contained  in  this 
petition,  that  the  ladies  shall  not  in  future  dress  in  gold 
stuff,  Genoa  velvet,  and  rich  ornaments.  What  say  you, 
ladies  .? " 

"  May  it  please  your  Majesty,"  observed  an  alderman's 
wife,  who  had  been  married  a  week,  **  aware  of  what  was 
to  come,  we  have  already  discussed  the  point  between  our- 
selves. It  is  admitted  that  our  husbands  leave  us  alone, 
and  that  we  are  justified  in  receiving  the  attentions  of  the 
young  nobles  who  so  honour  us.  Now  if  our  husbands 
stayed  with  us,  and  kept  us  company,  we  would  dress  to 
please  them ;  but  as  they  do  not,  and  we  are  indebted  to 
others  for  society,  why  we  must  dress  accordingly. 
Courtiers  require  the  splendour  of  the  court,  and  it  is  our 
duty  to  study  to  please  them,  and  our  husbands'  duty  to 
accede  to  it,  as  a  return  for  the  compliments  paid  to  us." 

"  This  is  remarkably  good  logic.  Sire,"  observed 
Rochester.  "  I  doubt  whether  you  ever  summoned  a  more 
wise  council." 

**  A  more  delightful  one,  never,"  replied  the  king,  bow- 
ing to  the  ladies. 

"  Now  we  will,  if  you  please,  summon  in  the  lord  mayor 
and  deputation ;  and  if  they  are  willing,  as  they  say  they 

are,  to  prove " 

O  X 


322  Olla  Podrida 

"Yes,  If — "  rejoined  the  lady  mayoress;  and  all  the 
other  ladies  replied,  "  Yes,  if— — " 

In  a  few  minutes  the  deputation  made  its  appearance  :  the 
mayor  and  his  colleagues  entered  the  room  with  joyful 
anticipations,  and  fully  prepared  to  prove  all  that  their 
petition  asserted ;  but  what  was  their  dismay  when  they 
all  beheld  their  own  wives,  dressed  in  stuiFs  of  gold,  and 
Genoa  velvet,  arranged  in  a  circle  round  the  throne,  their 
eyes  flashing  fire,  and  their  fans  moving  with  a  rapidity 
that  was  ever  the  precursor  of  a  storm.  Each  dame  had 
singled  out  her  husband,  fixed  her  eyes  upon  him,  and 
every  lord  and  master  had  quailed  at  their  lightning  flashes. 
They  tottered,  rather  than  walked,  up  to  the  throne,  and 
when  they  again  went  down  upon  their  knees,  each  one 
involuntarily  turned  round  to  the  direction  where  his  own 
wife  was  seated,  as  if  to  deprecate  her  wrath  and  implore 
her  pardon. 

The  king  bit  his  lips  to  control  his  laughter ;  Rochester 
stuffed  his  handkerchief  into  his  mouth. 

"  Mr  Mayor  and  gentlemen,"  said  the  king,  after  he  had 
somewhat  recovered  himself,  **  I  have,  as  you  perceive, 
summoned  a  special  council  to  consult  on  this  case;  and  it 
has  been  the  decision  of  the  council,  that  you  should  now 
produce  these  proofs,  which  you  but  just  now  stated  you 
were  prepared  and  willing  to  do.  Mr  Mayor,  you  may 
proceed,  we  are  all  attention." 

*'  May  it — please  your — ladyship,"  stammered  the  mayor. 

"  It  does  not  please  her  ladyship,"  replied  the  lady 
mayoress,  fanning  herself  furiously. 

"  I  meant — his  Majesty — I  would  have  said — I  have  no 
proofs  myself  to  bring  forward — but  my  colleagues  are,  I 
believe,  well  prepared." 

"  Indeed,  Mr  Mayor,  is  it  possible  that  I  mistook  you  ? 
You  have  no  proofs  ?  Well  then,  who  are  the  other  gentle- 
men who  are  to  bring  forward  the  proofs  ?  " 

The  deputation  answered  not. 

"  My  Lord  of  Rochester,  oblige  me  by  putting  the 
question  separately  to  each  of  these  gentlemen." 


I 


The  Fairy's  Wand  323 

The  question  was  put,  but  not  one  of  the  deputation  had 
a  proof  to  bring  forward 

*'  By  the  mass,  but  this  is  strange ! "  said  the  king. 
"  But  an  hour  ago  they  all  had  proofs,  and  now  they  have 
not  one.  This  is  trifling  with  us,  Mr  Mayor — an  insult  to 
the  throne  and  council.     Speak,  sir,  what  means  this  ? " 

"  May  it  please  your  Majesty — it  means — that  we  beg 
pardon  of  your  Majesty — and  of  the  special  council." 

"  And  your  petition  ? " 

**Is  withdrawn,  if  it  so  please  your  Majesty,"  said  the 
mayor,  looking  round  to  the  aldermen. 

"  Yes,  your  Majesty,  is  withdrawn." 

"  For  myself,  Mr  Mayor,  I  accept  your  excuses,  and  you 
have  my  pardon ;  but  as  for  the  special  council,  I  must 
leave  you  to  settle  with  it  how  you  can. — Ladies,  a  banquet 
is  prepared ,  when  summoned,  it  will  depend  upon  your- 
selves, whether  you  come  alone  or  attended  by  the  mayor 
and  deputation.  Come,  my  Lord  of  Rochester,  we  will  not 
interfere  in  the  arrangements,  which  will  take  place  better 
when  we  are  out  of  the  way." 

So  saying,  the  king  quitted  the  presence-chamber  with 
the  Earl  of  Rochester,  leaving  the  ladies  seated,  and  their 
husbands  still  kneeling.  We  shall  not  dwell  upon  what 
took  place  after  the  departure  of  the  king  ;  one  thing  is 
certain,  that  the  fair  sex  are  very  merciful,  and  as  their 
husbands  promised  them  that  in  future  they  should  have 
their  own  way,  dress  as  they  pleased,  receive  whom  they 
pleased,  and  spend  what  money  they  pleased,  the  ladies 
very  kindly  and  magnanimously  forgave  their  spouses  ;  and 
when  they  were  summoned  to  the  banquet,  each  lady 
entered  the  hall,  hanging  on  the  arm  of  her  husband. 

This  happy  reconciliation  was  duly  celebrated.  Wine 
flowed,  bumper  after  bumper  was  drank,  pledge  succeeded 
to  pledge,  and  it  was  long  past  midnight  before  the  carouse 
was  over.  The  moon  shone  bright,  and  heated  with  the 
wine,  Rochester  proposed  to  the  ladies  that  they  should 
take  a  walk  on  the  terrace  before  they  ordered  their 
carriages  to  go  home.     It  must  be  confessed  that  the  ladies 


324  Olla  Podrida 

had  not  been  so  cautious  as  they  ought  to  have  been,  and 
that  their  steps  were  not  very  steady ;  but  could  a  lady 
refuse  to  drink  wine  with  a  king  or  an  Earl  of  Rochester  ? 
No !  and  the  consequence  was,  that  they  all  were  merry, 
and  some  of  them  more  than  merry.  As  for  the  husbands, 
they  were  reeling  and  tumbling  in  all  directions,  and  the 
terrace-wall,  wide  as  it  was,  was  not  sufficiently  wide  for 
them.  Rochester  led  the  way,  and  all  was  fun  and  merry 
laughter. 

The  party  had  not  proceeded  far,  when  a  little  altercation 
took  place  between  the  mayoress  and  the  alderman's  wife 
who  had  given  her  opinion  after  her  in  the  council;  for 
it  so  happened  that  as  they  sauntered  along,  the  mayoress 
had  picked  up  one  portion  of  the  broken  wand,  and  the 
alderman's  lady  the  other.  The  wand  was  of  ebony,  and 
highly  polished — each  would  possess  herself  of  the  half 
in  the  hands  of  the  other,  and  thus  commenced  the  dispute  ; 
and  it  ended,  as  all  disputes  between  ladies  will  end,  if 
they  happen  to  have  a  stick  in  their  hands  when  they 
quarrel,  by  their  beating  each  other.  The  mayoress  gave 
the  alderman's  wife  a  slap  with  her  part  of  the  wand — 
it  was  immediately  returned — when  lo  and  behold 

It  must  be  here  explained,  that  although  the  wand 
when  entire  had  the  power  of  changing  people  as  we 
have  described,  yet  when  broken,  its  power  was  divided 
between  the  two  parts ;  the  one  end  retaining  its  half 
power  of  changing  only  the  upper  portion  of  the  figure, 
while  the  other  could  only  change  the  lower  half. 

The  blows  were  exchanged.  The  mayoress,  who  was 
a  tall  woman,  immediately  sank  down  a  foot  and  a  half, 
the  upper  portion  of  her  plump  body  was  now  resting 
upon  the  two  diminutive  legs  of  a  two-feet-high  fairy — 
which  could  only  make  a  stride  of  six  inches  at  a  time. 
The  alderman's  lady,  on  the  contrary,  retained  her  lower 
portion  of  her  body ;  but  instead  of  her  lovely  face,  and 
graceful  neck,  she  carried  a  little  round  head  and  shoulders, 
such  as  is  represented  in  the  figure  of  Puck.  They  must 
all  have  been  very  tipsy,  for  the  others  thought  that  they 


The  Fairy's  Wand  325 

had  put  on  masquerade  dresses — the  sticks  were  seized, 
one  by  Rochester,  the  other  by  the  king,  and  they  struck 
right  and  left — the  lord  mayor  had  the  head  and  beard 
of  a  satyr — Rochester  had  the  feet  of  a  goat — the  king 
appeared  to  have  the  bust  of  a  beautiful  woman,  with  a 
pair  of  splendid  blue  gossamer  wings  to  his  shoulders — 
one  of  the  aldermen  found  himself  with  a  naiad's  tail, 
and  he  fell  flat  on  the  terrace,  with  great  violence ;  all 
of  them,  men  and  women,  were  transformed  into  some 
shape  or  another — and  the  more  strange  the  metamorphosis, 
the  louder  they  all  laughed  and  shouted.  Some  indeed 
were  very  much  alarmed ;  particularly  one  little  woman, 
who  whispered  to  her  neighbour,  that  she  believed  she 
was  a  little  man. 

But  the  scene  did  not  end  here :  the  two  parts  ot  the 
wand  found  their  way  into  other  hands,  who  as  they 
capered  and  jumped  beat  their  companions.  King  Charles, 
struck  by  the  lower  part  of  the  wand,  found  his  trans- 
formation complete — he  was  now  a  lovely  woman; — 
Rochester  was  turned  by  a  blow,  into  a  perfect  satyr — 
while  the  mayoress,  struck  by  the  same  portion,  sank 
down  into  a  little  fairy  not  two  feet  high.  As  the  sticks 
were  passed  round  there  was  no  end  to  the  transforma- 
tions ;  the  fat  alderman  who  had  fallen  down  with  a  fish's 
tail,  now  became  a  perfect  naiad,  with  long  hair,  and  a 
comb  in  his  hand.  Such  was  the  noise  and  confusion, 
that  the  two  little  maids  of  honour  came  out  on  the  terrace 
to  witness  this  strange  revelling.  Rochester  seized  them 
and  kissed  them,  as  they  screamed  with  fright  at  his 
shaggy  beard — the  wand  was  applied  to  them,  and  they 
too  were  transformed.  The  Duchess  of  Portsmouth 
opened  her  chamber-window,  and  perceiving  the  wild 
revelling  resolved  to  indulge  his  Majesty  with  a  good 
curtain-lecture  ;  but  he  heard  her  not. 

"To  the  oak  of  Heme  the  hunter,"  cried  the  king; 
"  away  to  the  oak  !  " 

"  To  the  oak  !  to  the  oak  !  "  shouted  the  whole  bacchan- 
alian crew ;  and  away  they  flew  across  the  park,  starting 


326  Olla  Podrida 

the  quiescent  deer  with  their  shouts,  their  laughter,  and 
their  revelry.  Rochester  took  the  naiad  under  his  arm, 
that  she  might  not  be  left  behind,  and  dancing,  capering, 
tumbling,  and  getting  up  again,  led  by  the  merry  king, 
who  now  was  a  beautiful  fairy,  they  arrived  there  out  of 
breath. 

But  before  they  had  reached  the  oak,  their  noise  had 
disturbed  the  slumber  of  one  happy  pair  who  had  nestled 
in  each  other's  arms  among  the  fern. 

It  was  Maya  and  Elda — who  had  met,  and  had  been 
reconciled,  proving  that  with  fairies,  the  quarrels  of  lovers 
are  but  the  renewal  of  love ;  not  the  case,  although 
supposed  to  be  so,  with  us  mortals.  Maya  had  missed 
his  wand,  but  he  would  not  leave  Elda  to  return  for  it — 
he  intended  to  have  searched  for  it  the  next  morning. 

"  What  is  all  that  noise,  dearest  ? "  cried  Elda,  waking 
up  and  resting  on  her  elbow,  as  she  listened. 

**What  can  it  be,  but  the  mad  king  at  his  pranks  as 
usual  ? "  replied  Maya,  who  had  risen  on  his  feet.  **  But 
what  is  here }  I  see — I  see  how  it  is — they  have  found 
my  wand  and  must  have  broken  it ;  for  it  does  not  other- 
wise do  things  by  halves." 

As  Maya  said  this,  the  king  with  his  companions  arrived 
under  the  oak-tree — Elda  retired  to  a  distance,  while  Maya 
soon  regained  the  two  parts  of  his  wand  from  the  hands 
of  the  intoxicated  parties,  who  had  possession  of  them. 

"I  shall  have  work  to-night,  and  must  repair  this 
mischief,"  said  Maya.  "  Elda,  dearest,  hasten  and  bring 
me  poppy-juice  to  seal  up  the  eyes  of  these  mad  people." 

In  a  few  minutes  Elda  had  executed  her  commission ; 
the  whole  company  were  now  seated  in  a  circle,  singing 
songs,  hugging  one  another,  all  merry  but  the  two  little 
maids  of  honour,  who  not  having  taken  wine,  were  horrified 
at  the  transformation — they  sat  together  and  cried  as  if 
their  little  hearts  would  break. 

Maya  pressed  the  poppy-juice  on  the  eyes  of  each 
individual,  and  in  a  few  seconds  they  were  all  in  a  pro- 
found sleep.     He  then  examined  the  transformations,  and 


The  Fairy's  Wand  327 

completed  those  which  were  partial  above  or  below — 
till  then  he  could  not  repair  his  wand.  When  they  were 
all  transformed,  he  put  the  two  parts  of  his  wand  together, 
breathed  upon  them,  and  the  wand  was  reunited.  He 
then  went  round  the  circle,  touched  each  person,  and  the 
whole  company  resumed  their  original  forms. 

"So  far  have  I  done  my  part,"  observed  Maya.  "As 
for  colds,  catarrhs,  fevers,  agues,  they  deserve  all  they 
may  catch.     Now,  Elda,  let  us  once  more  retire  to  rest." 

The  leaves  of  the  old  oak-tree  were  gilded  with  the 
rays  of  the  morning  sun,  before  ICing  Charles  and  his 
companions  awoke,  and  very  much  astonished  they  were 
to  find  themselves  in  such  a  place  and  at  such  an  hour — 
the  ladies  blushed  and  canvassed  the  affair  among  them- 
selves— they  recollected  the  transformations,  they  re- 
membered their  setting  off  for  the  Hunter's  Oak — but 
still  they  were  confused.  The  mayor  and  aldermen  were 
puzzled — not  so  much  at  finding  themselves  asleep  under 
the  tree,  but  that  their  wives  should  be  there  also.  The 
king  and  Rochester  were  the  only  two  who  appeared 
indifferent. 

"  Come,  ladies — come,  my  lord  mayor  and  gentlemen 
of  the  corporation,  we  have  had  a  merry  night  of  it,  and 
have  slept  under  the  greenwood  tree,  now  let  us  in  to 
the  toilet,  and  then  to  breakfast." 

He  offered  his  arm  to  the  lady  mayoress,  the  rest  of 
the  company  followed — they  hastened  to  the  toilet — they 
ate  their  breakfasts,  and  then  hastened  back  to  the  good 
city  of  London. 

"Well,"  said  the  king,  as  soon  as  the  company  had 
departed,  "  what  think  you  of  this,  Rochester — were  we 
visited  by  the  fairies  last  night,  think  you  ? " 

"May  it  please  your  Majesty,"  replied  the  earl,  "my 
opinion  is  that  either  we  were  in  the  hands  of  the  fairies, 
or  else " 

"Else  what?" 

"  Or  else,  Sire,  we  were  all  most  confoundedly  drunk." 


A  Rencontre 

One  evening  I  was  sitting  alone  in  the  salle  a  manger  of  the 

Couronne  d'^Or,  at  Boulogne,  when  Colonel  G ,  an  old 

acquaintance,  came  in.  After  the  first  greeting  he  took  a 
chair,  and  was  soon  as  busily  occupied  as  I  was  with  a 
cigar,  which  was  occasionally  removed  from  our  lips  as  we 
asked  and  replied  to  questions  as  to  what  had. been  our 
pursuits  subsequent  to  our  last  rencontre.  After  about 
half  an  hour's  chit-chat,  he  observed,  as  he  lighted  a  fresh 
cigar — 

"  When  I  was  last  in  this  room  I  was  in  company  with  a 
very  strange  personage." 

**  Male  or  female  ?  "  inquired  I. 

**  Female,"  replied  Colonel  G .     **  Altogether  it's  a 

story  worth  telling,  and  as  it  will  pass  away  the  time,  I 
will  relate  it  you — unless  you  wish  to  retire." 

As  I  satisfied  him  that  I  was  not  anxious  to  go  to  bed, 
and  very  anxious  to  hear  his  story,  he  narrated  it  as  near 
as  I  can  recollect  in  the  following  words  : — 

"  I  had  taken  my  place  in  the  diligence  from  Paris,  and 

when  I  arrived  at  Notre  Dame  des  Victoires  it  was  all  ready 

for  a  start ;  the  luggage,  piled  up  as  high  as  an  English 

haystack,  had  been  covered  over  and  buckled  down,  and 

the  conducteur  was  calling  out  for  the  passengers.     I  took 

my  last  hasty  whifF  of  my  cigar,  and  unwillingly  threw 

away  more  than  half  of  a  really  good  Havannah  ;    for  I 

perceived  that  in  the  inter'ieur,  for  which  I  had  booked 

myself,  there  was  one  female  already  seated :  and  women 

and  cigars  are  such  great  luxuries  in  their  respective  ways, 

that  they  are  not  to  be  indulged  in  at  one  and  the  same 

time- — the  world  would  be  too  happy,  and  happiness,  we 
328 


A  Rencontre  329 

are  told,  is  not  for  us  here  below.  Not  that  I  agree  with 
that  moral,  although  it  comes  from  very  high  authority  ; — 
there  is  a  great  deal  of  happiness  in  this  world,  if  you  knew 
how  to  extract  it ;  or  rather,  I  should  say,  of  pleasure ; 
there  is  a  pleasure  in  doing  good ;  there  is  a  pleasure, 
unfortunately,  in  doing  wrong  j  there  is  a  pleasure  in 
looking  forward,  ay,  and  in  looking  backward  also ;  there 
is  pleasure  in  loving  and  being  loved,  in  eating,  in  drinking, 
and  though  last,  not  least,  in  smoking.  I  do  not  mean  to 
say  that  there  are  not  the  drawbacks  of  pain,  regret,  and 
even  remorse ;  but  there  is  a  sort  of  pleasure  even  in  them: 
it  is  pleasant  to  repent,  because  you  know  that  you  are 
doing  your  duty  ;  and  if  there  is  no  great  pleasure  in  pain, 
it  precedes  an  excess  when  it  has  left  you.  I  say  again, 
that,  if  you  know  how  to  extract  it,  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
pleasure  and  of  happiness  in  this  world,  especially  if  you 
have,  as  I  have,  a  very  bad  memory. 

"  *  Allans  J  Messieurs  I '  said  the  conducteur  ;  and  when  I 
got  in  I  found  myself  the  sixth  person,  and  opposite  to  the 
lady ;  for  all  the  other  passengers  were  of  my  own  sex. 
Having  fixed  our  hats  up  to  the  roof,  wriggled  and  twisted 
a  little  so  as  to  get  rid  of  coat-tails,  etc.,  all  of  which  was 
effected  previous  to  our  having  cleared  Rue  Notre  Dame  des 
Fictoires,  we  began  to  scrutinise  each  other.  Our  female 
companion's  veil  was  down  and  doubled,  so  that  I  could 
not  well  make  her  out ;  my  other  four  companions  were 
young  men,  all  Frenchmen,  apparently  good-tempered,  and 
inclined  to  be  agreeable.  A  few  seconds  were  sufficient 
for  my  reconnoitre  of  the  gentlemen,  and  then  my  eyes 
were  naturally  turned  towards  the  lady.  She  was  muffled 
up  in  a  winter  cloak,  so  that  her  figure  was  not  to  be  made 
out ',  and  the  veil  still  fell  down  before  her  face,  so  that 
only  one  cheek  and  a  portion  of  her  chin  could  be  de- 
ciphered : — that  fragment  of  her  physiognomy  was  very 
pretty,  and  I  watched  in  silence  for  the  removal  of  the 
veil. 

"  I  have  omitted  to  state  that,  before  I  got  into  the 
diligence,  I  saw  her  take  a  very  tender  adieu  of  a  very 


330  Olla  Podrida 

handsome  woman ;  but  as  her  back  was  turned  to  me  at 
the  time,  I  did  not  see  her  face.  She  had  now  fallen  back 
in  her  seat,  and  seemed  disposed  to  commune  with  her  own 
thoughts  :  that  did  not  suit  my  views,  which  were  to  have  a 
view  of  her  face.  Real  politeness  would  have  induced  me 
to  have  left  her  to  herself,  but  pretended  politeness  was 
resorted  to  that  I  might  gratify  my  curiosity  ;  so  I  inquired 
if  she  wished  the  window  up.  The  answer  was  in  the 
negative,  and  in  a  very  sweet  voice ;  and  then  there  was  a 
pause,  of  course — so  I  tried  again. 

**  *  You  are  melancholy  at  parting  with  your  handsome 
sister,'  observed  I,  leaning  forward  with  as  much  appear- 
ance of  interest  as  I  could  put  into  my  beautiful  phiz. 

"  *  How  could  you  have  presumed  that  she  was  my 
sister  ? '  replied  she. 

"From  the  strong  family  likeness,'  rejoined  I,  *I  felt 
certain  of  it.' 

"*But  she  is  only  my  sister-in-law,  sir — my  brother's 
wife.' 

"  *  Then,  I  presume,  he  chose  a  wife  as  like  his  sister  as 
he  could  find :  nothing  more  natural — I  should  have  done 
the  same.' 

"  *  Sir  you  are  very  polite,'  replied  the  lady,  who 
lowered  down  the  window,  adding,  *  I  like  fresh  air.' 

"*  Perhaps  you  will  find  yourself  less  incommoded  if 
you  take  off  your  veil  ? ' 

"  *  I  will  not  ascribe  that  proposition  to  curiosity  on  your 
part,  sir,'  replied  the  lady,  *  as  you  have  already  seen  my 
face.' 

"  *  You  cannot,  then,  be  surprised  at  my  wishing  to  see 
it  once  more.' 

"  You  are  very  polite,  sir.' 

"  *  Although  her  voice  was  soft,  there  was  a  certain 
quickness  and  decision  in  her  manner  and  language  which 
were  very  remarkable.  The  other  passengers  now 
addressed  her,  and  the  conversation  became  general.  The 
veiled  lady  took  her  share  in  it,  and  showed  a  great  deal  of 
smartness  and  repartee.     In  an  hour  more  we  were  all  very 


A  Rencontre  331 

intimate.  As  we  changed  horses,  I  took  down  my  hat  to 
put  into  it  my  cigar-case,  which  I  had  left  in  my  pocket, 
upon  which  the  lady  observed,  '  You  smoke,  I  perceive  ; 
and  so,  I  dare  say,  do  all  the  rest  of  the  gentlemen. — Now, 
do  not  mind  me  ;  I  am  fond  of  the  smell  of  tobacco — I  am 
used  to  it.' 

**  We  hesitated. 

***  Nay,  more,  I  smoke  myself,  and  will  take  a  cigar 
with  you.' 

**  This  was  decisive.  I  offered  my  cigar-case — another 
gentleman  struck  a  light.  Lifting  up  her  veil  so  as  to  show 
a  very  pretty  mouth,  with  teeth  as  white  as  snow,  she  put 
the  cigar  in  her  mouth,  and  set  us  the  example.  In  a 
minute  both  windows  were  down,  and  every  one  had  a 
cigar  in  his  mouth. 

"  *  Where  did  you  learn  to  smoke,  madam  ? '  was  a 
question  put  to  the  incognita  by  the  passenger  who  sat  next 
to  her. 

"  *  Where  ? — In  the  camp — Africa — everywhere.  I  did 
belong  to  the  army — that  is,  my  husband  was  one  of  the 
captains  of  the  47th.  He  was  killed,  poor  man  !  in  the 
last  successful  expedition  to  Constantine : — cetait  un  brave 
homme^ 

"  *  Indeed  !     Were  you  at  Constantine  } ' 

**  *  Yes,  I  was  \  I  followed  the  army  during  the  whole 
campaign.' 

**  The  diligence  stopped  for  supper  or  dinner,  whichever 
it  might  be  considered,  and  the  conducteur  threw  open  the 
doors.  *  Now,'  thought  I,  *  we  shall  see  her  face,'  and  so, 
I  believe,  thought  the  other  passengers  :  but  we  were  mis- 
taken ;  the  lady  went  upstairs  and  had  a  basin  of  soup 
taken  to  her.  When  all  was  ready  we  found  her  in  the 
diligence,  with  her  veil  down  as  before. 

"  This  was  very  provoking,  for  she  was  so  lively  and 
witty  in  conversation,  and  the  features  of  her  face  which 
had  been  disclosed  were  so  perfect,  that  I  was  really  quite 
on  a  fret  that  she  would  leave  me  without  satisfying  my 
curiosity  : — they  talk  of  woman's  curiosity,  but  we   men 


;^;^2  Olla  Podrida 

have  as  much,  after  all.  It  became  dark; — the  lady 
evidently  avoided  further  conversation,  and  we  all  com- 
posed ourselves  as  well  as  we  could.  It  may  be  as  well  to 
state  in  few  words,  that  the  next  morning  she  was  as 
cautious  and  reserved  as  ever.  The  diligence  arrived  at 
this  hotel — the  passengers  separated — and  I  found  that  the 
lady  and  I  were  the  only  two  who  took  up  our  quarters 
there.  At  all  events,  the  Frenchmen  who  travelled  with 
us  went  away  just  as  wise  as  they  came. 

"  *  You  remain  here  ? '  inquired  I  as  soon  as  we  had  got 
out  of  the  diligence. 

"  *  Yes,'  replied  she.     *  And  you ' 

"  *  I  remain  here,  certainly ;  but  I  hope  you  do  not 
intend  to  remain  always  veiled.     It  is  too  cruel  of  you.' 

*' '  I  must  go  to  my  room  now  and  make  myself  a  little 
more  comfortable ;  after  that,  Mons  I'Anglais,  I  will  speak 
to  you.     You  are  going  over  in  the  packet,  I  presume  ? ' 

*'  *  I  am  :  by  to-morrow's  packet.' 

"  *  I  shall  put  myself  under  your  protection,  for  I  am 
also  going  to  London.' 

"  *  I  shall  be  most  delighted.' 

"  '■  Au  revoir^ 

''  About  an  hour  afterwards  a  message  was  brought  to 
me  by  the  garpn,  that  the  lady  would  be  happy  to  receive 
me  in  No.  19.  I  ascended  to  the  second  floor,  knocked, 
and  was  told  to  come  in. 

"  She  was  now  without  a  veil ;  and  what  do  you  think 
was  her  reason  for  the  concealment  of  her  person  ?  " 

"  By  the  beard  of  Mokhanna,  how  can  I  tell  ?  " 

"  Well,  then,  she  had  two  of  the  most  beautiful  eyes  in 
the  world  ;  her  eyebrows  were  finely  arched ;  her  forehead 
was  splendid ;  her  mouth  was  tempting — in  short,  she  was 
as  pretty  as  you  could  wish  a  woman  to  be,  only  she  had 
broken  her  nose — a  thousand  pities,  for  it  must  once  have 
been  a  very  handsome  one.  Well,  to  continue,  I  made  my 
bow. 

"  *  You  perceive,  now,  sir,'  said  she,  *  why  I  wore  my 
veil  down.' 


A  Rencontre  ^;^^ 

"  *  No,  indeed,'  replied  I. 

"  *  You  are  very  polite,  or  very  blind,*  rejoined  she  : 
*  the  latter  I  believe  not  to  be  the  fact.  I  did  not  choose 
to  submit  to  the  impertinence  of  my  own  countrymen  in 
the  diligence :  they  would  have  asked  me  a  hundred 
questions  upon  my  accident.  But  you  are  an  Englishman, 
and  have  respect  for  a  female  who  has  been  unfortunate.' 

"  *  I  trust  I  deserve  your  good  opinion,  madam  ;  and  if 
I  can  be  in  any  way  useful  to  you ' 

**  *  You  can.  I  shall  be  a  stranger  in  England.  I  know 
that  in  London  there  is  a  great  man,  one  Monsieur  Lis-tong, 
who  is  very  clever.' 

**  '  Very  true,  madam.  If  your  nose,  instead  of  having 
been  slightly  injured  as  it  is,  had  been  left  behind  you  in 
Africa,  Mr  Liston  would  have  found  you  another.' 

"  *  If  he  will  only  repair  the  old  one,  I  ask  no  more. 
You  give  me  hopes.  But  the  bones  are  crushed  completely, 
as  you  must  see.' 

"  *  That  is  of  no  consequence.  Mr  Liston  has  put  a 
new  eye  in,  to  my  knowledge.  The  party  was  short- 
sighted, and  saw  better  with  the  one  put  in  by  Mr  Liston, 
than  with  the  one  which  had  been  left  him.' 

**  *  Est-il  possible?  Mais,  que/  hotmne  extraordinaire! 
Perhaps  you  will  do  me  the  favour  to  sit  with  me, 
monsieur  \  and,  if  I  mistake  not,  you  have  a  request  to 
make  of  me — riest-ce  pas  ? ' 

*''I  feel  such  interest  about  you,  madam,  that  I  ac- 
knowledge, if  it  would  not  be  too  painful  to  you,  I  should 
like  to  ask  a  question.' 

'•'*  Which  is.  How  did  I  break  my  nose? — Of  course 
you  want  to  know.  And  as  it  is  the  only  return  I  can 
make  for  past  or  future  obligations  to  you,  you  shall  most 
certainly  be  gratified.  I  will  not  detain  you  now.  I  shall 
expect  you  to  supper.     Adieu,  monsieur.' 

''  I  did  not,  of  course,  fail  in  my  appointment  ;  and 
after  supper  she  commenced  : — 

"  *  The  question  to  be  answered,'  said  she,  *  is.  How  did 
you  break  your  nose  ? — Is  it  not  ?     Well,  then,  at  least,  I 


334  OUa  Podrida 

shall  answer  It  after  my  own  fashion.  So,  to  begin  at  the 
beginning,  I  am  now  just  twenty-two  years  old.  My 
father  was  tambour-major  in  the  Garde  Imperiale.  I  was 
born  in  the  camp — brought  up  in  the  camp — and,  finally, 
I  was  married  in  the  camp,  to  a  lieutenant  of  infantry  at  the 
time.  So  that,  you  observe,  I  am  altogether  militaire.  As 
a  child,  I  was  wakened  up  with  the  drum  and  fife,  and 
went  to  sleep  with  the  bugles ;  as  a  girl,  I  became  quite 
conversant  with  every  military  manoeuvre ;  and  now  that  I 
am  a  woman  grown,  I  believe  that  I  am  more  fit  for  the 
baton  than  one  half  of  those  marshals  who  have  gained  it. 
I  have  studied  little  else  but  tactics  ;  and  have,  as  my  poor 
husband  said,  quite  a  genius  for  them — but  of  that  here- 
after. I  was  married  at  sixteen,  and  have  ever  since 
followed  my  husband.  I  followed  him  at  last  to  his  grave. 
He  quitted  my  bed  for  the  bed  of  honour,  where  he  sleeps 
in  peace.     We'll  drink  to  his  memory.' 

"  We  emptied  our  glasses,  when  she  continued  : — 

** '  My  husband's  regiment  was  not  ordered  to  Africa 
until  after  the  first  disastrous  attempt  upon  Constantine. 
It  fell  to  our  lot  to  assist  in  retrieving  the  honour  of  our 
army  in  the  more  successful  expedition  which  took  place, 
as  you  of  course  are  aware,  about  three  months  ago.  I 
will  not  detain  you  with  our  embarkation  or  voyage.  We 
landed  from  a  steamer  at  Bona,  and  soon  afterwards  my 
husband's  company  were  ordered  to  escort  a  convoy  of 
provisions  to  the  army  which  were  collecting  at  Mzez 
Ammar.  Well,  we  arrived  safely  at  our  various  camps  of 
Drean,  Nech  Meya,  and  Amman  Berda.  We  made  a  little 
detour  to  visit  Ghelma.  I  had  curiosity  to  see  it,  as 
formerly  it  was  an  important  city.  I  must  say  that  a 
more  tenable  position  I  never  beheld.  But  I  tire  you  with 
these  details.' 

"  *  On  the  contrary,  I  am  delighted.' 

"  *  You  are  very  good.  I  ought  to  have  said  something 
about  the  travelling  in  these  wild  countries,  which  is  any- 
thing but  pleasant.  The  soil  is  a  species  of  clay,  hard  as  a 
flint  when  the  weather  is  dry,  but  running  into  a  slippery 


A  Rencontre  335 

paste  as  soon  as  moistened.  It  is,  therefore,  very  fatiguing, 
especially  in  wet  weather,  when  the  soldiers  slip  about,  in 
a  very  laughable  manner  to  look  at,  but  very  distressing  to 
themselves.  I  travelled  either  on  horseback  or  in  one  of 
the  waggons,  as  it  happened.  I  was  too  well  known,  and 
I  hope  I  may  add,  too  well  liked,  not  to  be  as  well  provided 
for  as  possible.  It  is  remarkable  how  soon  a  Frenchman 
will  make  himself  comfortable,  wherever  he  may  chance  to 
be.  The  camp  of  Mzez  Ammar  was  as  busy  and  as  lively 
as  if  it  was  pitched  in  the  heart  of  France.  The  followers 
had  built  up  little  cabins  out  of  the  branches  of  trees,  with 
their  leaves  on,  interwoven  together,  all  in  straight  lines, 
forming  streets,  very  commodious,  and  perfectly  impervious 
to  the  withering  sun.  There  were  restauraiits,  cafes,  debits 
de  vin  et  eau-de-vie,  sausage-sellers,  butchers,  grocers — in 
fact,  there  was  every  trade  almost,  and  everything  you 
required ;  not  very  cheap  certainly,  but  you  must  recollect 
that  this  little  town  had  sprung  up,  as  if  by  magic,  in  the 
heart  of  the  desert. 

"  *  It  was  in  the  month  of  September  that  Damremont 
ordered  a  reconnaissafice  in  the  direction  of  Constantine,  and 
a  battalion  of  my  husband's  regiment,  the  47th,  was  ordered 
to  form  a  part  of  it.  I  have  said  nothing  about  my  hus- 
band. He  was  a  good  little  man,  and  a  brave  officer,  full 
of  honour,  but  very  obstinate.  He  never  would  take 
advice,  and  it  was  nothing  but  "  Tais-toi,  Coralie,^^  all  day 
long — but  no  one  is  perfect.  He  wished  me  to  remain  in 
the  camp,  but  I  made  it  a  rule  never  to  be  left  behind. 
We  set  off,  and  I  rode  in  one  of  the  little  carriages  called 
cacolets,  which  had  been  provided  for  the  wounded.  It 
was  terrible  travelling,  I  was  jolted  to  atoms  in  the  ascent 
of  the  steep  mountain  called  the  Rass-el-akba  *,  but  we 
gained  the  summit  without  a  shot  being  fired.  When  we 
arrived  there,  and  looked  down  beneath  us,  the  sight  was 
very  picturesque.  There  were  about  four  or  five  thousand 
of  the  Arab  cavalry  awaiting  our  descent ;  their  white 
bournous,  as  they  term  the  long  dresses  in  which  they 
enfold  themselves,  waving  in  the  wind  as  they  galloped  at 


^^6  Olla  Podrida 

full  speed  in  every  direction  ;  while  the  glitter  of  their  steel 
arms  flashed  like  lightning  upon  your  eyes.  We  closed 
our  ranks  and  descended  ;  the  Arabs,  in  parties  of  forty 
or  fifty,  charging  upon  our  flanks  every  minute,  not  coming 
to  close  conflict,  but  stopping  at  pistol-shot  distance,  dis- 
charging their  guns  and  then  wheeling  off  again  to  a 
distance — mere  child's  play,  sir  ;  nevertheless  there  were 
some  of  our  men  wounded,  and  the  little  waggon  upon 
which  I  was  riding  was  ordered  up  in  the  advance  to  take 
them  in.  Unfortunately,  to  keep  clear  of  the  troops,  the 
driver  kept  too  much  on  one  side  of  the  narrow  defile 
through  which  we  passed ;  the  consequence  was,  that  the 
waggon  upset,  and  I  was  thrown  out  a  considerable 
distance  down  the  precipice ' 

*'  *  And  broke  your  nose,'  interrupted  I. 

"  *  No  indeed,  sir,  I  did  not.  I  escaped  with  only  a  few 
contusions  about  the  region  of  the  hip,  which  certainly 
lamed  me  for  some  time,  and  made  the  jolting  more  dis- 
agreeable than  ever.  Well,  the  reconnaissance  succeeded. 
Damremont  was,  however,  wrong  altogether.  I  told  him 
so  when  I  met  him ;  but  he  was  an  obstinate  old  fool,  and 
his  answer  was  not  as  polite  as  it  might  have  been, 
considering  that  at  that  time  I  was  a  very  pretty  woman. 
We  returned  to  the  camp  at  Mzez  Ammar  ;  a  few  days 
afterwards  we  were  attacked  by  the  Arabs,  who  showed 
great  spirit  and  determination  in  their  desultory  mode  of 
warfare,  which,  however,  can  make  no  impression  on  such 
troops  as  the  French.  The  attack  was  continued  for  three 
days,  when  they  decamped  as  suddenly  as  they  had  come. 
But  this  cannot  be  very  interesting  to  you,  monsieur.' 

"  '  On  the  contrary,  do  not,  I  beg,  leave  out  a  single 
remark  or  incident.' 

"  '  You  are  very  good.  I  presume  you  know  how  we 
militaires  like  to  fight  our  battles  over  again.  Well,  sir, 
we  remained  in  camp  until  the  arrival  of  the  Due  de 
Nemours — a  handsome,  fair  lad,  who  smiled  upon  me  very 
graciously.  On  the  1st  of  October  we  set  off  on  our 
expedition  to  Constantine ;   that  is   to  say,  the  advanced 


A  Rencontre  337 

guard  did,  of  which  my  husband's  company  formed  a 
portion.  The  weather  which  had  been  very  fine,  now 
changed,  and  it  rained  hard  all  the  day.  The  whole  road 
was  one  mass  of  mud,  and  there  was  no  end  to  delays  and 
accidents.  However,  the  weather  became  fine  again,  and 
on  the  5th  we  arrived  within  two  leagues  of  Constantine, 
when  the  Arabs  attacked  us,  and  I  was  very  nearly  taken 
prisoner.* 

"  *  Indeed  ! ' 

"  *  Yes  ;  my  husband,  who,  as  I  before  observed  to  you, 
was  very  obstinate,  would  have  me  ride  on  a  caisson  in  the 
rear ;  whereas  I  wished  to  be  in  the  advance,  where  my 
advice  might  have  been  useful.  The  charge  of  the  Arabs 
was  very  sudden  ;  the  three  men  who  were  with  the  caisson 
were  sabred,  and  I  was  in  the  arms  of  a  chieftain,  who  was 
wheeling  round  his  horse  to  make  off  with  me  when  a  ball 
took  him  in  the  neck,  and  he  fell  with  me.  I  disengaged 
myself,  seized  the  horse  by  the  bridle,  and  prevented  its 
escape ;  and  I  also  took  possession  of  the  Arab's  pistols 
and  scimitar.' 

"  *  Indeed ! ' 

"  *  My  husband  sold  the  horse  the  next  day  to  one  ot 
our  generals,  who  forgot  to  pay  for  it  after  my  husband 
was  killed.  As  for  the  scimitar  and  pistols,  they  were 
stolen  from  me  that  night :  but  what  can  you  expect  ? — 
our  army  is  brave,  but  a  little  demoralised.  The  next  day 
we  arrived  before  Constantine,  and  we  had  to  defile  before 
the  enemy's  guns.  At  one  portion  of  the  road,  men  and 
horses  were  tumbled  over  by  their  fire ;  the  caisson  that  I 
was  riding  upon  was  upset  by  a  ball,  and  thrown  down  the 
ravine,  dragging  the  horses  after  it.  I  lay  among  the 
horses'  legs — they  kicking  furiously  ;  it  was  a  miracle  that 
my  life  was  preserved :  as  it  was ' 

"  *  You  broke  your  nose,'  interrupted  I. 

**  *  No,  sir,  indeed  I  did  not.  I  only  received  a  kick  on 
the  arm,  which  obliged  me  to  carry  it  in  a  sling  for  some 
days.  The  weather  became  very  bad ;  we  had  few  tents, 
and  they  were  not  able  to  resist  the  storms  of  rain  and 

O  Y 


^^S  Olla  Podnda 

wind.  We  wrapped  ourselves  up  how  we  could  and  sat 
in  deep  pools  of  water,  and  the  Arabs  attacked  us  before 
we  could  open  the  fire  of  our  batteries ,  we  were  in  such 
a  pickle  that,  had  the  bad  weather  lasl:ed,  we  must  have 
retreated ;  and  happy  would  those  have  been  who  could 
have  once  more  found  themselves  safe  in  the  camp  of  Mzez 
Amman  I  don't  think  that  I  ever  suffered  so  much  as 
I  did  at  that  time — the  weather  had  even  overcome  the 
natural  gallantry  of  our  nation ;  and  so  far  from  receiving 
any  attention,  the  general  remark  to  me  was,  "  What  the 
devil  do  ycu  do  here  ?  "  This  to  be  said  to  a  pretty  woman ! 
"  *  It  was  not  till  the  loth  that  we  could  manage  to  open 
the  fire  of  our  batteries.  It  was  mud,  mud,  and  mud  again; 
the  men  and  horses  were  covered  with  mud  up  to  their 
necks — the  feathers  of  the  staff  were  covered  with  mud — 
every  ball  which  was  fired  by  the  enemy  sent  up  showers 
of  mud ;  even  the  face  of  the  Due  de  Nemours  was  dis- 
figured with  it.  I  must  say  that  our  batteries  were  well 
situated,  all  except  the  great  mortar  battery.  This  I  pointed 
out  to  Damremont  when  he  passed  me,  and  he  was  very 
savage.  Great  men  don't  like  to  be  told  of  their  faults ; 
however,  he  lost  his  life  three  days  afterwards  from  not 
taking  my  advice.  He  was  going  down  the  hill  with 
Rulhieres  when  I  said  to  him,  *  Mon  General,  you  expose 
yourself  too  much ;  that  which  is  duty  in  a  subaltern  is  a 
fault  in  a  general.'  He  very  politely  told  me  to  go  to 
where  he  may  chance  to  be  himself  now ;  for  a  cannon-ball 
struck  him  a  few  seconds  afterwards,  and  he  was  killed  on 
the  spot.  General  Perregaux  was  severely  wounded  almost 
at  the  same  time.  For  four  days  the  fighting  was  awful ; 
battery  answered  to  battery  night  and  day:  while  from 
every  quarter  of  the  compass  we  were  exposed  to  the  fierce 
attacks  of  the  Arab  cavalry.  The  commander  of  our  army 
sent  a  flag  of  truce  to  their  town,  commanding  them  to 
surrender  j  and,  what  do  you  think  was  the  reply  ? — "  If 
you  want  powder,  we'll  supply  you ;  if  you  are  without 
bread,  we  will  send  it  to  you :  but  as  long  as  there  is  one 
good  Mussulman  left  alive  you  do  not  enter  the  town." — 


A  Rencontre  339 

Was  not  that  grand  ?  The  very  reply,  when  made  known 
to  the  troops,  filled  them  with  admiration  of  their  enemy, 
and  they  swore  by  their  colours  that  if  ever  they  over- 
powered them  they  would  give  them  no  quarter. 

"  *  In  two  days,  General  Vallee,  to  whom  the  command 
fell  upon  the  death  of  Damremont,  considered  the  breach 
sufficiently  wide  for  the  assault,  and  we  every  hour  ex- 
pected that  the  order  would  be  given.  It  came  at  last. 
My  poor  husband  was  in  the  second  column  which 
mounted.  Strange  to  say,  he  was  very  melancholy  on  that 
morning,  and  appeared  to  have  a  presentiment  of  what 
was  to  take  place.  "  Coralie,"  said  he  to  me,  as  he  was 
scraping  the  mud  off  his  trousers  with  his  pocket-knife, 
"  if  I  fall,  you  will  do  well.  I  leave  you  as  a  legacy  to 
General  Vallee — he  will  appreciate  you.  Do  not  forget 
to  let  him  know  my  testamentary  dispositions." 

"  *  I  promised  I  would  not.  The  drums  beat.  He 
kissed  me  on  both  cheeks.  "  Go,  my  Philippe,"  said  I; 
**  go  to  glory."  He  did  ;  for  a  mine  was  sprung,  and  he 
with  many  others  was  blown  to  atoms.  I  had  watched 
the  advance  of  the  column,  and  was  able  to  distinguish 
the  form  of  my  dear  Philippe  when  the  explosion  with  the 
vast  column  of  smoke  took  place.  When  it  cleared  away, 
I  could  see  the  wounded  in  every  direction  hastening  back  ; 
but  my  husband  was  not  among  them.  In  the  meantime 
the  other  columns  entered  the  breach — the  firing  was 
awful,  and  the  carnage  dreadful.  It  was  more  than  an 
hour  after  the  assault  commenced  before  the  French 
tricolor  waved  upon  the  minarets  of  Constantine. 

**  *  It  was  not  until  the  next  day  that  I  could  make  up 
my  mind  to  search  for  my  husband's  body ;  but  it  was  my 
duty.  I  climbed  up  the  breach,  strewed  with  the  corpses 
of  our  brave  soldiers,  intermingled  with  those  of  the 
Arabs  ;  but  I  could  not  find  my  husband.  At  last  a  head 
which  had  been  blown  off  attracted  my  attention.  I  ex- 
amined it — it  was  my  Philippe's,  blackened  and  burnt,  and 
terribly  disfigured  :  but  who  can  disguise  the  fragment  of 
a  husband  from  the  keen  eyes  of  the  wife  of  his  bosom  ? 


340 


Olla  Podrida 


I  leaned  over  it.  **  My  poor  Philippe  !  "  exclaimed  I ;  and 
the  tears  were  bedewing  my  cheeks  when  I  perceived  the 
Due  de  Nemours  close  to  me,  with  all  his  staff  attending 
him.  **  What  have  we  here  ?  "  said  he,  with  surprise,  to 
those  about  him.  "  A  wife,  looking  for  her  husband's 
body,  mon  Prince,"  replied  I.  "I  cannot  find  it ;  but 
here  is  his  head."  He  said  something  very  complimentary 
and  kind,  and  then  walked  on.  I  continued  my  search 
without  success,  and  determined  to  take  up  my  quarters  in 
the  town.  As  I  clambered  along,  I  gained  a  battered  wall ; 
and,  putting  my  foot  on  it,  it  gave  with  me,  and  I  fell 
down  several  feet.  Stunned  with  the  blow,  I  remained 
for  some  time  insensible  ;  when  I  came  to,  I  found " 

"  *  That  you  had  broken  your  nose.' 

"  *  No,  indeed ;  I  had  sprained  my  ankle  and  hurt  the 
cap  of  my  knee,  but  my  nose  was  quite  perfect.  You 
must  have  a  little  patience  yet. 

"  *  What  fragments  of  my  husband  were  found,  were 
buried  in  a  large  grave,  which  held  the  bodies  and  the 
mutilated  portions  of  the  killed ;  and,  having  obtained 
possession  of  an  apartment  in  Constantine,  I  remained  there 
several  days,  lamenting  his  fate.  At  last  it  occurred  to  me 
that  his  testamentary  dispositions  should  be  attended  to, 
and  I  wrote  to  General  Vallee,  informing  him  of  the  last 
wishes  of  my  husband.  His  reply  was  very  short :  it  was, 
that  he  was  excessively  flattered,  but  press  of  business 
would  not  permit  him  to  administer  to  the  will.  It  was 
not  polite. 

"  '  On  the  26th  I  quitted  Constantine  with  a  convoy  of 
wounded  men.  The  dysentery  and  the  cholera  made  fear- 
ful ravages,  and  I  very  soon  had  a  caisson  all  to  myself. 
The  rain  again  came  on  in  torrents,  and  it  was  a  dreadful 
funeral  procession.  Every  minute  wretches,  jolted  to 
death,  were  thrown  down  into  pits  by  the  roadside,  and 
the  cries  of  those  who  survived  were  dreadful.  Many  died 
of  cold  and  hunger ;  and  after  three  days  we  arrived  at  the 
camp  of  Mzez  Ammar,  with  the  loss  of  more  than  one- 
half  of  our  sufferers. 


A  Rencontre  341 

"  *  I  took  possession  of  one  of  the  huts  built  of  the 
boughs  of  the  trees  which  I  formerly  described  ;  and  had 
leisure  to  think  over  my  future  plans  and  prospects.  I  was 
young  and  pretty,  and  hope  did  not  desert  me.  I  had 
recovered  my  baggage,  which  I  had  left  at  the  camp,  and 
was  now  able  to  attend  to  my  toilet.  The  young  officers 
who  were  in  the  camp  paid  me  great  attention,  and  were 
constantly  passing  and  repassing  to  have  a  peep  at  the 
handsome  widow,  as  they  were  pleased  to  call  me ;  and 
now  comes  the  history  of  my  misfortune. 

"  *  The  cabin  built  of  boughs  which  I  occupied  was 
double  ;  one  portion  was  fenced  off  from  the  other  with  a 
wattling  of  branches,  which  ran  up  about  seven  feet,  but 
not  so  high  as  the  roof.  In  one  apartment  I  was  located, 
the  other  was  occupied  by  a  young  officer  who  paid  me 
attention,  but  who  was  not  to  my  liking.  I  had  been 
walking  out  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  and  had  returned, 
when  I  heard  voices  in  the  other  apartment  •,  I  entered 
softly  and  they  did  not  perceive  my  approach ;  they  were 
talking  about  me,  and  I  must  say  that  the  expressions 
were  very  complimentary.  At  last  one  of  the  party  ob- 
served, "  Well,  she  is  a  splendid  woman,  and  a  good 
soldier's  wife.  I  hope  to  be  a  general  by-and-bye,  and 
she  would  not  disgrace  a  marshal's  baton.  I  think  I  shall 
propose  to  her  before  we  leave  the  camp." 

"  *  Now,  sir,  I  did  not  recognise  the  speaker  by  his 
voice,  and,  flattered  by  the  remark,  I  was  anxious  to  know 
who  it  could  be  who  was  thus  prepossessed  in  my  favour. 
I  thought  that  if  I  could  climb  up  on  the  back  of  the  only 
chair  which  was  in  my  apartment,  I  should  be  able  to  see 
over  the  partition  and  satisfy  my  curiosity.  I  did  so,  and 
without  noise  ;  and  I  was  just  putting  my  head  over  to  take 
a  survey  of  the  tenants  of  the  other  apartment  when  the 
chair  tilted,  and  down  I  came  on  the  floor,  and  on  my 
face.  Unfortunately,  I  hit  my  nose  upon  the  edge  of 
the  frying-pan,  with  which  my  poor  Philippe  and  I  used 
to  cook  our  meat :  and  now,  sir,  you  know  how  it  was 
that  I  broke  my  nose.' 


342  Olla  Podrida 

"  '  What  a  pity  ! '  observed  I. 

"  *  Yes  ;  a  great  pity.     I  had  gone  through  the  whole 

campaign  without  any  serious  accident,  and But  after 

all  it  was  very  natural :  the  two  besetting  evils  of  women 
are  Vanity  and  Curiosity,  and  if  you  were  to  ascertain 
the  truth,  you  would  find  that  it  is  upon  these  two 
stumbling-blocks  that  most  women  are  upset  and  break 
their  noses.' 

**  *  Very  true,  madam,'  replied  I.  *  I  thank  you  for 
your  narrative,  and  shall  be  most  happy  to  be  of  any  use 
to  you.  But  I  will  detain  you  from  your  rest  no  longer, 
so  wish  you  a  very  good  night.' " 

"  Well,  Colonel,"  said  I,  as  he  made  a  sudden  stop, 
"  what  occurred  after  that  ?  " 

"I  took  great  care  of  her  until  we  arrived  in  London, 
saw  her  safe  to  the  hotel  in  Leicester  Square,  and  then 
took  my  leave.  Whether  Liston  replaced  her  nose,  and 
she  is  now  jlanee — ing  about  Paris,  as  ^beautiful  as  before 
her  accident ;  or,  whether  his  skill  was  useless  to  her, 
and  she  is  among  the  ^xurs  de  Charite,  or  in  a  convent, 
I  cannot  say  :  I  have  never  seen  or  heard  of  her  since." 

"  Well,  I  know  Liston,  and  I'll  not  forget  to  ask  him 
about  her  the  very  first  time  that  I  meet  him.  Will  you 
have  another  cigar  ?  " 

*'No,  I  thank  you.  I've  finished  my  cigar,  my  bottle, 
and  my  story,  and  so  now  good-night !  " 


THE    END. 


TURNBULL  AND  SPEARS,  PRINTERS,  EDINBURGH. 


C/ 


